She

She wakes up but she stays asleep. The dark grey, naturally transparent light shines through the dusty, off-white blinds and fights the midnight black, darkening curtains. The white – off-white, drawn on, tattered drywall – walls shine with the dark grey sunlight and she had to open her eyes. The door creaks with an old, broken sound, even though it’s barely twenty years old, and echoes as shoes hit it in the back and long, multicoloured lanyards hit it in the front. Her life is atrocious – clothes strewn across the floor with lazy shoes, odd socks, dully clean clothes, messily intelligent school books, and white, grey, black, maroon, and rainbow dog hair. The carpet has a dirty, unkempt zebra look with a miniature one to hide more flaws.
She has five sides – all an extreme, exciting, and defensive obituary. She’s a little girl with a lovely passion for horses and flowers; but she loves hockey and will fight like a brutally beautiful defensemen to keep her honour. She’s dainty – loving of fashion and beauty – but she’s dangerous – loving of cheerleading and fighting wars. She can be lazy as a warm, sunbathing sloth bear but as proactive as working worker honey bee. Unpredictable like a tornado and just as deadly – only she’s no F5. Barely an F2. Would she kill on sight or on site? Technologically advanced and an old soul with no wish for flying cars and spaceships. She dreams of Rome, Paris, New York, and London just the same as Ottawa, Winnipeg, and Halifax. She is an enigmatic oxymoron.
She is my favourite place.
She is my worst fear.