There are two girls in the living room.
One sits over the mantle framed by her family with the sun in bloom.
The other sits on an adjacent shelf, framed by fluorescent light.
They smile at some distant watcher, cheeks lifted to their eyes, teeth gleaming white.
Mantle girl can’t drive, she wants like an abyss.
She yearns for the beauty of a lilac, the freedom of a kiss.
Her fire is yet to come, it echoes like an empty hall.
Her anger is displaced, loathing, and messy as it stalls.
Her face, still round, is placid and small.
Like Timmy Turner and an American girl doll.
Shelf girl can drive, she knows everything about Keats and nothing about life.
Her mind is full and her passions steady,
Steadfast, and flowing.
Her face is leaner and her features finer.
She looks back at you
With a gaze that knows you’re looking at her;
Bright, as if alight with ambition or a thought.
She is almost a woman.