I am not the girl I thought I'd be.
I don't have my life together.
I'm not the eloquent coffee at sunrise and
Tennyson at nighttime person that you would love.
I sleep too late
because att might my mind turns into a wonderland of
identity crises and dazzlind epiphanies.
I can't shut it off.
My hair isn't sleek or even brushed
because I've grown to kind of like the mess
that comes from letting it run wild.
My nails aren't manicured
or even recognizable as nails at all
because I bite then when I'm nervous.
I get nervous a lot.
I'm not skinny,
although I know I'm my harshest critic.
Because what's really so bad about curves?
I've tried to like the classics, I really have.
But Dickenson makes me sad
and Melville is too tough.
Although to contradict myself,
nothing is better than a lesson from Ms. Harper Lee
or some Thoreau to make me feel better about my
OregonianNatureLovingComplicatedBeautiful state of mind.