Don't be afraid,
she whispers perfectly into my ear.
Her tear-sticky cheek is pressed to mine and
I can feel her lips painting their color
onto my overstretched lobes.

I wish I could say I don't know what she's talking about. "This girl is clearly insane." I'll later say to my companions, a half raised glass masking my words. That, like much of what I say, will be a lie. I try to think back to when I first encountered the crazy-not-crazy girl, and find that I cannot. It seems she's always been there, hovering on the borderland of my memories.