Who is that girl over there in that deep dark corner of this chalkboard room? She’s so dark and mysterious, and so lonely. She mumbles to herself and reads books over witches and spells, I think Edgar Allen Poe would be concerned for her. I’ve seen the phenomenon of shadows avoiding her darkness as she walks towards the sun, asking to be burnt. Her black lips and narrower glaring make me feel alive. She’d suck out my soul if I stare for too long. Her white skin and the black she layers herself with, are my favorite things to see in the twilight of night. The orange light from her cigarette is the only color on her, and the puff ball smoke that falls from her thin lips, is like the grounded fog dancing on a cemetery. She doesn’t need me, nor does she want me. But the poetry she writes makes me question life and if it’s worth it, she makes me question the meaning in the little things….she makes feel so little to her concrete statue her rich family place above her grave in her mausoleum. I’m the color and she is the inked picture on the page, I want to be her’s- I need to be her’s. I need to be with that girl over there in the deep dark corner of this chalkboard room.