assymetrical.

She wears a thousand silver bracelets on her right wrist.
With a expo marker in one hand and a curled up, outdated text in the other, she pulls every eye up from their squeaky desk. She paces. Arms up over her head. Leans against the white board with her chunky boots crossed in front. Her voice, that voice that tastes of her british childhood, covered in confidence, perfectly calloused by life, carries truth found in hope; the voice that you can't help drink in pulls a picture of divine love into a room full of young, nervous hearts with twitchy feet. She lifts her hand. She presses the crease of her text with her pointer finger to keep it from folding itself.
Her outfit doesn't make sense. She doesn't know how to use the computer. She smells a lot like musky perfume and a little like cigarette. She's not a clever puzzle to piece together. No costume. No flowery words. No band aids. No botox.

She is. She just is.
She knows she wasn't a mistake.
This hyper, cynical, scarred, disorganized woman was completey and perfectly on purpose.
She knows it.

She warns us of trivial finish lines. She tells us love is never still. She reads aloud and laughs with Flannery O'Connor, cries with Nathaniel Hawthorne, and sees like CS Lewis.


Hey Suzanne.




Thanks.

firefly.