Don't all the crazy girls
Tara Marie Gilbert-Brever
have black eyes,
big feet,
braided pigtails,
Bibles with ripped pages,
bogeymen with real bodies;
have thin fingers,
terrible spelling,
torn hems,
trees named after them,
trouble sleeping in quiet houses;
have muddy knees,
milk breath,
mercury rising,
mothers who pretend not to see,
my face in their mirror?