I wanna be a literary girl

& walk around soho with maxi skirts & matcha & annotate the bell jar in velvet blue ink on curling pages with garamond font & wear my hair long down my back & dark sunglasses pulled up on my head & bangle bracelets that slide up my forearm & paint my nails eggshell white & smile with blinding teeth & date a girl who likes pistachio perfume & braiding hair & date a boy who understands the smiths & charlotte brontë & only notice after concerts that my throat is raw from singing songs that sound like whoever i love & kiss that person until my lips don’t feel like mine & write poems about the lattice of light on my bedroom ceiling & write a novel with sticky fingers every summer & breathe into my friends’ laughing mouths glistening with shared lipstick or lip gloss or sauce from dinner & only buy brandy melville if it’s thrifted so i can seem ethical even though i’m a consumer & an involuntary capitalist & nothing i pretend to be - but i’ll only say that at night when i let conversations turn philosophical as the sky turns to satin & lace & wake up with the warm night pressing against my eyelids & fall asleep to sirens that at first sound like the high wail of someone out late & running to catch up with friends & feeling sweat soaked & impenetrable.