She is beautiful, but she doesn't know it. Her messy, dirty blonde hair flows from the top of her head down to a little past her weak shoulders. Her nose is a little larger than average, but her lips are tiny and a shade of light-fleshy pink. Her vivid, dark blue eyes dance in a way that seems to say she's lively yet calm. Her pale, fair skin seems almost malnourished. She had a pronounced jaw line, which sticks out from her neck. She stands about average height, but she is so thin and lanky that she seems taller than she actually is. She always wears long-sleeve shirts and hides her hands in the sleeves that are too long. She also always wears dark jeans that seem so bland but compliment her personality. She always wears mismatched socks and grey converse. She is shy, but she can be goofy when she gets to know someone too well. She is an introvert. Her thoughts run a million miles an hour. She loves art. She paints some and sketched almost all of the time. She also writes poetry, reads emotional novels, and loved indie films. She plays the piano and cello. She listens to everything from classical to jazz to blues to pop punk to dubstep to death metal. She is so forgiving and kind that she lets people hurt her. She has learned, however, not to trust hardly anyone. She never opens up to anyone who doesn't open up to her first. She has no clue what she wants to do in life. She aspires to be an artist, but she know it usually doesn't pay well. She doesn't go out much. She's never invited to parties. Instead, she usually stays in her room and expresses herself. She has always hated styles and fashions. Her wardrobe hasn't change since seventh grade, and she intends to keep it that way. She feels that if one needs nice and expensive clothes to cover up one's shallow personality, then one isn't worth talking to. She likes learning about different cultures and ideas. She tries to keep an open mind about things, and she doesn't lean in any specific political direction. She hopes one day to move to New York, although she has no clue where to get the money to do that. She's an amazing person. She loves life but hates living.

I can't in good faith say that I love you-

not the way they say I should:

unconditionally, irrevocably, unreasonably.

You are my first thought in the morning,

and nearly the last at night;

somewhere in the mix, I get lost

in cotton candy sauropods and train tracks made of gold.

If you asked it of me,

I would burn my world to the ground,

set fire to the rickety apartment I share

with the cat you found

and promptly grew bored of.

I'd throw the ashes to the wind,

follow you on some stupid journey

of running from our past and charges

of criminal arson.

And yet I don't love you.

Your flaws are not charming.

Your teeth are crooked, your nose just a little

too big, and your eyes

are tired and look toward a place

that I cannot see.

I hate this you.

I dream of a day when your smile

doesn't look like the quiet pain

of an awkward middle-schooler.

I long for a you that can speak

without stammer,

without your bushy eyebrows turned up

at the center of your brow,

always afraid and seeking approval.

Your voice wouldn't squeak,

when you deny my compliments--

you wouldn't do that.

In my mind,

you are beautiful and bold,

and you know that you're worth everything I have

and more.

You could be perfect.

But you're not.

I can't love you,

not just the way you are.

She was spritely; there one moment, gone the next. If you knew how to look, you'd see her leaning against the wall, brow furrowed as she nodded her head to the definitely-not-mainstream music blasting through her earbuds. Her hair bounced with her, nutmeg springs perfectly balanced between not caring and tryhard. She'd pause, crinkle her carrot-shaped nose and purse her lips, then press buttons on her MP3 until a satisfied smirk previewed on her face. At first glance it would seem she was vacationing inside a daydream, but every so often her sharp eyes, a stark contrast to her coffee-coloured, would flicker in your direction; you'd cower to avoid her zealous gaze that scrutinized your every flaw.

I hear stories piecing you together in my head, imagine what you look like, how you use to dress. I imagine small eyes enlarged by glasses that hid eye brows and graze cheeks. Bright red cheeks from all the laughing, acing cheeks from all the smiles.

I like to put you in a summers dress, on a warm day down at the beach, but the dress isn't a beach dress- the trip was spontaneous with no time to change; there was someone their you just had to see.

I like to place you in a play park, on certain days of the year, watching the children skip, slide and swing, spying on one child in particular.

I like to picture you at home with your arms wrapped around me, where we are just sat together watching tv, nothing special; because every now and again

I like to imagine you hadn't died in child birth, and that you got to watch me grow up, and that I got to see your face, so I could actually describe it in detail.

He's dark

He's light

He's a mix

of everything right.

He's fit

Full of wit

He's essentially

The one everyone

Will on 'hit'.

He'll shine

Very refined

But all of that

Doesn't matter

So stay away

Because he's mine.

#iamfa

Indeed a challenge to describe one you haven't seen, they assuredly are a blank canvas, and as you think on them your mind tries to connect the dots and paint their image, always bringing it back to those we've seen, or my mind is just incapable of creating someone new. Nevertheless to draw the one whom I've never laid gaze upon, I will draw best efforts.

She is adorned in a mild skin colour, with the constellations drawn on her in the form of countless freckles, from her heads top to her legs connection to foot. She is given hair that draws it's ends near her neck and shoulders, a reminder of these softer, more delicate and intimate features. She draws smile from a set of lips that are brushed burning red like the fire that could be had if they made connection with my own. Her curvature is not over-exaggerated, nor overly exposed, room for respect of her body but enough to keep you in the chase of what it might be.

She is adorned with dresses of splendid color reminiscent of the eggs given color for the Easter holiday and the sandals that they tell us the ancient Romans and Greeks once equipped their feet with. Her head is given a lovely band of the palest flowers and free flowing underneath. Her hair is what most folks give the quality of strawberry blonde, a fine wine blend of a bodied red and sweet white. Her eyes are as piercing as the sweet sting in cupid's arrows, and are far greener than the emeralds and jades you may have seen at the jeweler's. She is ever so dainty, but oh so strong in every form. She can speak in the language of honey, gaining your favor for her requests, and she is supremely fluent in the language of fire, burning the world you created and causing your bridges with others to be lost also.

She is Venus. She is love. She is pursuit. Don't leave your mortal to be lost in this vicious walk, Dominus!

I call her Horsey. She has equine teeth. The type of jaw that protrudes about the mandible.

Her hair is brownish, but she is getting middle aged and she was a firey red head all her life..

She laughs and taunts like the boys do on the playground. She is horrible. Rude. Smart. Intimidating, and not just because she is tall, the type of intimidating you feel before she arrives.

Horsey.