Against her bed, fingers tapping, bad pop blasting, this is it.
This is safe space, a makeshift community.
The girl on my right, our arms touching, she’s who kept me strong through text book breakdowns and walked across the night beach starring up at the lights of San Francisco across the bay.
At my feet, the girl who shares a wall with me that I knock against to see if she is there,who dances with me in rooms too hot with music too loud.
I always find my kind; smart, driven, ink fuelled females. We know our kind. We fall in and out of theatre, dance to strong female anthems, secret and not so secret, Taylor Swift lovers, the conscious consumers.
We are of bright red lipstick, hawk eyes and excellent at getting lost. We hare differing degrees of tidiness-clothes everywhere to shirts organized in all colours. We hold notebooks clutched against our chest and sometimes leave them on the floors of cars. We grow our roots deep, but we always notice clouds. We are idealistic. But how could we not be, when words run through our veins?
I always find my kind.
We always find our kind.