I always wondered if she was smart --
she has T.S. Eliot poetry
hidden on her book shelves, and
Rhianna blaring from her stereo
and the contradiction makes my
head spin like a carousel.

She has a supermodel smile
and vulnerable little-kid eyes --
she knows how to use both.

One day, I tell how how she confuses
me. She laughs like I'm a grade-A
comedian instead of a girl who
constantly compares myself to her.

She doesn't seem to get my references
to Austen or Melville or Orwell,
but she laughs when I whisper to her
in the dead of night, "Courage
is grace under pressure," like I
am trying to hard to be poetic.

She pats my hand and smiles
like Candice Swanopoel and
looks at me like Elle Fanning
and then dances like Nina
Revskaya. I cringe.

I still don't know if she is
smart or just beautifully stupid --
I've also figured out I don't
want to know anymore.

an: Like, four months & this is all I have. I suck.