They tell me I'm smart, but I'm not smart. I'm just some girl. They tell me I can do it, so I believe I can do it, but I can't. I just missed the irony in their words. They say I'm a genius, but I'm no genius. I'm just some girl. Average can pass as genius when she wears a gaudy shawl of satirical wool. But she's no genius. She's just some girl, somewhere beneath a shroud of incandescent fibers. They aren't even hers; she bought them with the language she does own. Because she's nothing brilliant. She's just some girl, who has her words, her rough undyed words that she weaves with no shame or compromise. But what is her language but something overlooked, but wasted space? What is she but an ironic contradiction, a caricature of genius scribbled and signed by just some girl.