She is not her eyes, though they burn so brightly, like the moon on earth. She is not the curves of her hips, or the one on her stomach or her chest. She cannot be simply defined by her grades or her friends, or even her parents.
For she is something completely extrodinary, something the world has never seen before. She is the books she reads, and the way she highlights all the lines she adores or can relate too. She is the freckles that pepper her skin, on her shoulders, her face, her arms. She is the sea breaking against the shore, the disastrous beauty of a wildfire.
She is not the artists she listens too, for she is the lyrics they sing that peice her soul together. She is not the bags under eyes from lack of sleep, she is the thoughts that float in and out of her mind all through the night, keeping her awake.
She is not how she takes care of her hair, or lack of care. She is the way she stands in the shower, pondering the universe and all the millions of questions and possibilities it holds. She is how she sleeps, curled up in a ball some nights, much resembling a kitten, or how other nights she stretches across the mattress, more resembling the stretch she takes to make others happy.
She is not her body, or the shape of it, for it is merely just a shell for the spirit of the she wolf that lays in wait to run free inside her. She is not the way she controls her emotions, for she is the way she expresses them. She is the way the corners of her mouth crook upwards even when she is upset, as if she is prepared to laugh her way back to happiness.
She is not the clothes she wears, they are merely just another way for her to express her true self. She is not the rumors that circle around behind her back, she is the way she chooses to ignore them because she knows who she truly is, and it is not close to those lies. She is not the way she acts around people, she is the way she acts when she is by herself, when no one is watching.
For she is not so simply a price of artwork, she is the entire museum. And though not all who come across her will
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Short Stories & Such
Short StoryThis is a collection of short stories and sonnets (if you must call them that). All works are mine (if they are not, I will be sure too give credit). Stories range from love to hate, happiness to depression, living to dying. This will have no schedu...
