She is like no other, she is more than a woman could be. Instead of pink high-heels, she is wearing black hoody and dark lipstick.
Alone, she always find peace in the tennis court. Her music genre is metal, and doesn't go to parties like the other girls in town.
A beauty prodigy, a reigning queen actually. Her hobbies aren't nudging makeups nor fitting backless tops. She loves strumming her guitar, and singing alone in her room.
Outspoken, eloquent, and independent. She is a strong woman, a nonpareil lady befitting of any man could wish for.
She likes poems, but she hates reading too long. She is fond of milk, emptying two glass each seat, and she loves Christmas more than Santa does.
If there would be a thing to describe her, I would surely choose “rose,” a black one.
She is almost perfect with her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes that look like mountain dew in the red petals that remind me of her lips. Beautiful, but dangerous enough with her thorny walls of personality that would halt anyone who plans to trespass her heart.
And yes, these scars came from the climbs I made.
