She...

I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but-

Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin.

I am too many breaks between pulses,
and a heart still living in the autumn of 09.
I'm telling stories about a girl.

A soul made of ink and godly metaphors,

too much for a non-homeostatic body.
There were once fireflies in her smile,

alight between the gaps in her teeth.
A rebel,
  love letters carved into wrists
         she never sent.