Manic Dream

 Her clunky-vintage boots, only slightly wrought with mud, make up almost ¼ of her weight.
She stands at a grand height of five feet, and two inches.
She casually bops her head to the alternative punk music blaring from her grimy white earbuds.
Her jacket, a brazen display of every reference to social justice and pop culture available in the 21st century, which is to say all of them. Her vinyl pins take a special sort of pride in declaring “boomer” or a particular gleaming pin: “Eat the Rich,”
Her ever present bottle of Dr Pepper is misted with condensation. She downs the entire thing within minutes of minutes of arriving. Alternating between the soda and her bag of Sour Patch steadily.
She sits atop the picnic bench in the quad, her legs folded under her. Seemingly to add to her height.
Her demeanor saying it all, open, but very sure. Saying; Come talk to me, but if you disrespect me, I will not hesitate to leave.
Her chipped black and maroon nails tap the worn copy of Jane Eyre in a metronome like fashion, counting all the shits she does not give.
Jane Eyre is only the book of the week, last Pride and Prejudice, the week before Sense and Sensibility.
Her eyes, which society likes to pretend that they can read like her beloved books, are always the most confusing shade of intelligence and conviction.
At a glance, she is a manic pixie’s dream embodiment. But there is something else, which is ironic to say the least considering the entirety of the trope;
She is not one to be absorbed by a man.
She is not your Manic Pixie Dream Girl, because she is not yours. She belongs to her, and her alone.
She is not a Manic Dream, because she is real.
She is done serving her heart on a platter. She is not a meal to be consumed.
This girl will change the world. But this time, she won’t give it away as a gift.
This world will be for her.