Lizzy Burnam 🐞

A girl is not a broom. A broom is not a stomachache, nor 
the sound of seltzer bubbles popping in a can, ting. A car 

light flashes through the window blind, blink, and it’s probably not
the police with saliva still wet on a cigarette butt, 

probably not the man who fed you radishes and figured, 
ha, ha, you were bright enough to know better. A girl is not

a broom. She is more like a paper cut-out doll: yellowed, torn, 
flimsy, but at least she doesn’t age. An age, cupcake, is but

a number, one, two, don’t make me count to three. Benevolence, 
I believe it’s called. A girl is not ungrateful. She is not 

under the couch, nor crouched beneath the table, boo. A coffin 
is not a fire escape, and the fire is no bigger 

than a broom could stamp out with bristled feet. No, a girl is not 
a bottle opener, nor a broken thumb, pop, nor a lung. 

A balloon is not your friend, and neither is a poltergeist, 
knock knock. A thought is not a welcome guest, no matter how much

it grooms your hair. A girl is not a broom, 
snip. She has letters to push through mail slots, emails to archive,

and fortune-telling to do before her eyes turn to marbles. 
Who but a girl could be a miracle? Lo, she unfolds!