A girl is not a broom. A broom is not a stomachache, norĀ the sound of seltzer bubbles popping in a can, ting. A carĀ light flashes through the window blind, blink, and itās probably not the police with saliva still wet on a cigarette butt,Ā probably not the man who fed you radishes and figured,Ā 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,Ā flimsy, but at least she doesnāt age. An age, cupcake, is but a number, one, two, donāt make me count to three. Benevolence,Ā I believe itās called. A girl is not ungrateful. She is notĀ under the couch, nor crouched beneath the table, boo. A coffinĀ is not a fire escape, and the fire is no biggerĀ than a broom could stamp out with bristled feet. No, a girl is notĀ a bottle opener, nor a broken thumb, pop, nor a lung.Ā A balloon is not your friend, and neither is a poltergeist,Ā knock knock. A thought is not a welcome guest, no matter how much it grooms your hair. A girl is not a broom,Ā snip. She has letters to push through mail slots, emails to archive, and fortune-telling to do before her eyes turn to marbles.Ā Who but a girl could be a miracle? Lo, she unfolds!
A girl is not a broom
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