She built a pyramid in the sand,
portioning a quotient to each of us,
and she tasted the structures' fright
as we kicked them down.
She would absorb the sun like a plant,
turning green, and make a fossil out of
each thought she was too afraid to say,
building glaciers of her emotions.
She had a habit of pretending to be invisible,
so similar to her surroundings
we wouldn't notice her bleak outlook
or the way she tied her hair.
She wanted a balcony to sit on,
to observe the world from,
where helicopter maple keys and fallen leaves
were her only real visitors.
She never hosted slumber parties
and gave harsh answers to avoid the truth;
the jellyfish sting of declined invitations
was a possibility too impossible to allow.
She hoarded nuts like a chipmunk,
stuffing her cheeks with every stare cast her way
as she made her solemn march downtown
wondering why she hated attention.
She might have crumpled the pages of your heart
if you were to put it in her hands, so she thought
she'd better not risk it, and remained
in the typical lonely day-to-day.