Poems by Julia

The girl.

She's not normal.

But of course when I say normal I mean she doesn't fit society's mold.

She doesn't wear bright clothes or changes her look. 

She sees beauty in bottle caps, the ones that get stuck in the mud.

Or the leaves that she runs over with her bike.

She moves every year, not her choice.

The thing about her though is she's dying. You can see it in her eyes.

Everytime she sees the scissors when she's cutting paper, or the knife's when she's cooking. When she gets home and just sits in her window.

You can see the flicker in her eyes that just says, jump.

And it's a shame really, someone so unique willing to listen to the voices.