From the start, she seemed strange, blank,

empty as a white canvas, almost, spotless,

without stains; even her freckles were clean.

The way she carried herself, the way her heels

dug into the cement with clicks, revolver

clicks, paper clips, metallic mutterings;

she didn't seem to create any color.

She would leave the class in a flurry of

blanks, empty shells cast upon the ground,

dust gathering, saluting silent halls of

long carpets, deep dark red, void of any

decorations, stark branches in winter,

snow everywhere, white, white, white. Just

silence, nothing, nothing, empty tin cans.

Until, she arrived in an explosion of sound,

colors raking the air, red lips, brown eyes,

brown hair; when she opened her mouth for a

single word of greeting, she seemed to break from

a shell and thrust her bleeding fingertips forward.