young indie girl with pastel flowers in her hair,
marker on her shoes, a couple cryptic tattoos
nail polish flaking off, her hair dye has faded off.
she's a mix of classic colours, strawberry flavoured trouble.
she speaks almost in poetry, in lyrics of those songs
from a band I've never heard, a song I've never learned.
she speaks like she's in therapy, or in a new-age movie scene,
vintage cars and neon lights, red lipstick and bar fights,
but she catches the wind like a kiss on her face
with her head out the window of a car that's not her taste.
she comes alive in street lights and empty highway roads
where the lyrics of her songs seem to sing her home.
she's trying to fall in love with herself
without the liquor stains and forgotten nights that everyone knew so well.
she's trying to fall in love again
without the cheap tricks or smoky lips or a bottle of gin
so when the lights turn out and the voices grow quiet,
she embraces herself and finds peace in her silence.