In which men would read strange matters
But her heart was a fortress
Sheltering her from disaster.
Because she couldn’t fall in love
Because free-fall leads to fall-out
And at some point, when you’re up so high
You’ve got to come crashing down.
Her hair dripped down her back
It was just like wet paint
Brush strokes of shiny, jet-black
The artist unaware of his masterpiece.
Her skin was porcelain
Her nails varnished perfectly.
She smelled like a burning garden
A beautiful, floral, tragedy.
She was chaotic and enigmatic
She hardly felt real
Because the whole point of a person
Is to be unbelievable.
She was strong and brave
Yet so often afraid
She was intelligent, yet illogical
But she never made mistakes.
And since she was impossible
Everyone knew her name
Because she was the girl