Her hair is honey and her eyes are the sea. She is grace and she speaks with an eloquence that is almost obnoxious. Everyone sees her, but no one knows her.
She is strong and silent. She believes words are better on paper. Her voice doesn’t compare to the ink stains she creates with a red pen in her hand.
Sweet, rosy cheeks and her warm smile indicate a softness that is entirely authentic. A soft face nearly collapses with such stiff eyes. Hers scream.
Something has pulled at every last tendon of her being. Something pushed tears out of her sockets. Something has held her heart so tightly it burst open.
She has experienced mountains and nuclear bombs. She’s had quiet nights alone under the moon. She’s had roaring nights turn into hungover mornings.
There are secrets she can’t tell, and won’t tell. She will live to be 92 with words unspoken, hidden behind her lungs because there isn’t enough trust.
Each freckle and scar and hair on her head tell a different story. Her grin displays her childish luster while her rigid brows reveal a seasoned woman.
But her wit and knowledge flourish with every sentence she whispers. Her love of language is apparent. Sarcasm is in her blood. She still maintains poise.
Her mother taught her at a young age that elegance and finesse is important for a lady. Those words were taken seriously. Shoulders back. Chin up. Eyes bright.
Keep your nails pristine. Suck your stomach in. Take small bites. Be modest always. Say thank you. Never curse. Ignore imperfections in others. Walk tall.
Obviously, the level of her convention is off-putting to many. She typically is found walking alone. But independence is as notable as a red lip or stilettos.
She doesn’t bleed ferocity, but rather sighs complacently among originality. She addresses herself as plain as day. She is not. She is warm rain in June.
Whistling from behind the teeth of men three times her age disgusts her. She is not a fox. She doesn’t need assistance with her confidence. She reigns.
Passionate of white tea length skirts and pearls. She fancies bright pink lipstick and straight hair down her torso. Give her collars and bows.
She wants to look classic and sleek. Monochromatic schemes fill her to the brim with a simplistic achievement. With her words delicate, her style is vibrant.
Self-awareness isn’t distorted in her mind. She recognizes her flaws. The idea of imperfection eats at her reputable image. Internalized inadequacy bites.
Regardless of the unhealthy habits and the emotional state of the young girl, she is pretty, and pure, and whole. She lives candidly each day as if she were being drawn from coal. Precision isn’t the expectation. Fulfillment and joy and simplicity promise her all that she needs.
She is content.
She is lovely.
She is divine.