she is broken fingernails
and big front teeth
that fill a crooked smile.

she is round, sometimes-sad
glittering eyes, that light up
a little maniacally
whenever she cackles
her witch-like laugh.

she is high-voice-when-excited,
and loud-voice-when-angry,
and little sighs and ahems.

she is fly-away hair,
flying away to dreamlands
and scheming-hands
that tell tall stories.

she is dramatic sunrises.
she is quiet, lonely afternoons.
she is thoughtful nights
that never wake up smiling.

she is awkward silences,
and then a 'this is awkward'
that makes you chuckle.

she is intelligent conversation
and stupid, unnecessary comments.
she is deep thoughts
and foolish naivety.

she is vague irritation
and uncomfortable absence.

she is pushed-at pull-doors
and pulled-at push-doors
and whacked-with-a-spinning-door.

she is sarcastic expressions
and concerned glances.
she is ignorant and unaware
and the best kind of listener.

she is messy handwriting
and scribbled eyes
and ink-stained cheeks
and intricate, biro patterns.

or, at least, she was.

now she is still
broken fingernails,
but she is also
silent screams into a pillow.

she is an ugly mirror,
wretched dark thoughts,
and empty, hurting eyes.

she is a forced smile
and brushed-away tears.

she is still broken fingernails,
but she is also just
broken, broken, broken, broken...