She is a mystery, her emotions are too, you can’t figure her out, no one can. She is not defined by meaningless words on ripped papers, I would love to write about her but I cannot define her by a sad poem, she is so much more. She dances with the devil like he is made of the threads of an angel. she glances at the sky like it’s a reflection of her soul, she finds pieces of herself in the moon and stars and she can’t help but raise her hand and move her fingers softly while murmuring to a sweet lullaby. She doesn’t hold on to the people she loves, scared that if she did she’ll break them under her fragile hold. She looks at herself like she is a scintilla, another pointless nothing, but she looks at people like they’re sunflowers with galaxies floating in their roots. she is a delicate snowflake but she isn’t measured by the temperature, she doesn’t melt when she is warm, she isn’t controlled by the weather, in fact the only thing that controls her is the unknown limit of mortality. She clutches her soul like its the only salvation she has of her existence. She isn’t scared of the darkness, the fire in her veins is enough to provide her light. She isn’t like most of us, she isn’t stuck, she is lost and she doesn’t want to be found.