Cool Chick
By Berlin St. Croix

I am the Cool Chick. I am the one with black Army boots, a black mini-skirt and jet black hair. I am the one with the icy stare, the ground coffee bean voice, the vaguely European accent. I am the Cool Chick. I have worked my whole life for this.

When I come into a room, heads turn. When I speak, people listen. When I read my poetry, people snap their fingers. When I dance, people watch. When I laugh, you laugh also. When I frown, you wonder what you did wrong.

It is hard work being Cool. You have to know just what to say, what to wear, how to act. You must remain unapproachable. You must be a goddess fashioned of china.

I release, from time to time, a fashionable tear - at a film festival or an art gallery. Never at anything you say.

So get it clear right now. If you see me tremble, it is a calculated weakness. If you hear my breath catch in my throat, it is pretense. Do not imagine that you can reach into the porcelain cage of my chest and release my heart.

If you see me weeping in a corner, remember it is by design. I am there because the light slashes a drmatic shadow across my bone pale face.

It has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with anything you could say or do.

I'm too cool for that.