puny portrait

ms lynch takes no prisoners.

she doesn't have the spare room.

she plays with words, in traffic, past her bedtime.

she says she's shy, but no one believes her. she digs for tin in her backyard and tunnels to new zealand.

ms lynch has an itch she can't reach. No, higher.

her feet are small, her ankles bony, her wrists inflexible. she likes eyes. No, not yours.

she diagrams sentences with a fencing master.

she's wrapping herself in plastic with a little lemon and sitting on the porch until she's done brewing.

she is hiding beneath a veneer of uncool.

she is waiting for the perfect moment to break out in hives.

ms lynch has work to do. she writes instead.

cross posted from http://www.thrushcross.com/amy/blog