to the girls who write poetry
who wake up cold in the summer
who grow into women dreaming of not a Romeo
but a Fitzgerald, a Plath, a Dostoevsky
a name with enough letters for them to learn the alphabets of their love.
to girls who juxtapose themselves with the world
look down from their shaky, mighty pedestals built on words
and in that one moment,
hold both the all and the nothing that is
in the palms of their reaching hands.
to girls who feel the tilt of the axis
and are moved by it.










