Translation
Her tendrils swung in front of her face like flirty antennae (who wears tendrils?). Pull them one at a time, flirt; keep her off-balanced. You are a boy who doesn’t speak much: only the language Random. Warn her about the danger of carcinogens, but secretly know there’s something to be said for breathing in her second-hand smoke. Take her to the movies. Don’t make a move. She’ll wonder if you’re gay. She’ll later discover you’re just scared—summer when we were young. The girl’s tendrils have grown into a wife’s ponytail. In winter months I have bangs. Sometimes I’m a man. Mainly I’m an ass. I’m now bilingual. I speak the language Hurt.