She kicks the shit out of everything and everyone like a swan or M-4 Sherman Tank.
She believes in magic, but understands you need more than a magic wand or white rabbit to pull off an illusion that won’t become unstuck like a generic Post-it note.
There’s no better coach to have in your corner when you’re fighting the darkness and the questions and answers are weighing you down like soup bones or cartoon anvils.
She was working at Columbia. You used to walk by her desk because you already had a crush and even with the best and most carefully chosen words at your disposal you still felt more awkward than you’d care to admit to.
Her beauty is awe-inspiring, but I believe it’s her genuine and generous being that’s laying waste to the soldiers hiding in the bush like ravaged romantics or monsters with no actualized conscience.
You were different. Already too familiar with a Shot in the Heart and the residual guilt, shame and confusion over the sins and secrets of a brother swallowed whole by the unrelenting nothingness.
She broke through your walls quicker than anyone has before or since because she recognized that a hostage situation only ends with more broken hearts and when it comes to a peaceful resolution through violent means there are far better ways to spend one’s blood and treasure.
She boxes because it’s some of the best exercise there is and aggression if channeled properly can revitalize you and get you in the best shape of your life.
The people who enter the ring and fight for what they believe in will always make more of a difference than those who choose to do nothing, but live lives of quiet desperation.