WORDS SARAH PETTINA
She’s in sun visors, left down in the passenger seat. She’s in eyeliner and road trips and slightly damp grass. I see her in books and bakeries; swords fights and knives. I hear her in whispers at night and laughter in libraries. The shrieks of running through the rain. I see her in the colour red: fiery and fierce. I see her in deep purple: royal and ruling and right. I know her in stage shows and karaoke and late-night drinking. I even feel her with me at home, in my denim jackets and chipped nail polish. In my fingerless gloves and faux leather boots. I see her everywhere. But maybe she sees me too. Maybe she sees me in shared playlists and playgrounds at night. Maybe she sees me in unfinished stories and crossed out poems and confessions on bathroom floors. Maybe I see her there too. Maybe, sometimes, we see each other.
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