A Day in the Life of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl

She awakens at nine or ten or eleven

It doesn’t really matter 

For time is her essence 

As she opens her eyes,

The birds greet her in song 

And she stifles the world’s cutest giggle 

Along with a wretched sense of yearning 

For something greater than a titular role

But that has no place in her room 

So she picks up her polished pink feet 

And dances on through 

To the messy vanity that hints at her charm

Adorned with sparkly butterflies and tiny figurines made from yarn

She sits down and starts to cover her face 

And maybe more, if she has time 

“Pretty,” says she, in a manner equally silly and coy

Fluttering her lashes while dousing her body in 

The “quirkiest” of fashions

She laces up boots with teeny heels

and walks out the door, trying her hardest not to feel... 

Anything but her playful air 

made to win over the hearts of the pure. 

Or so she tells herself at night when she 

cannot help but lie awake

For the world falls hard for the manic, the pixie

For the sweet dewy haze of the walking daydream 

But after filling blank pages to the brim with color 

The inner child healer and all her blinding rays

Always returns to a bed cold and bare

For each time she comes home, the light fades further

with less color to share

And although sunshine girls love their cloudy boys soaked in raindrops 

A flood is a flood

And when it comes to drowning,

No one is spared.