She
is found mostly in between the folds of intergalactic space and her face lights up only under the moonlight.

She
has creepers in place of nerves and they form a heavy bundle of thorn laced vines up her spine and sprout flowers in her brain.

Her
voice is a mixture of 2am hopeless calls and spring air.
Sugar dipped candy sticks, husky coffee lips.

She
is trying to cover up the cracks in between her skin with love and honey instead of plastering it with other's words.

She
is trying not to shy away from her being. Trying to learn to love herself first without feeling the need to crack open every shell of sorrow that makes her.

She
traces her fingertips on dusty old window ledges, opening the rusty locks and letting the wind curl her hair.

She promises to never close it again.

Because she is trying to heal. And she will.