She is a thousand lace spirals and bare legs; stick like arms and skewed proportions.
Glittery star-studded lips reflecting in disco balls as the world capers around the dance floor, are really just the imaginary fact; in this sets lighting the imperfection of her lips is glaringly obvious; T'was a pretty rose not yet in fool bloom, he said; Small mouth, small breasts, boney hips, spider-like fingers.
She is awkward. She is proud. She is a Gryffindor.
She is the epitome of the Mona Lisa, dip-dyed in ivory, flecks of oil paint curling at the corners of her eyes; eyes bright as topaz, they are just glued-on gems clouded up by stardust – White powder staining white flesh; clinging to, keeping her in the warped water underneath rope bridges; ecstasy in a chalk pill.
She is a gram of nicotine wrapped in the body of the night, a broken miss; once a princess with an enchanting coat of tawny fire, a proud roar. She was the lion in all its glory; a huntress, she stalked at night, lips painted red, smoke curling sensuously.
Now she is nothing more than a roar repressed, trapped within charcoal fringed cat's eyes blackened with leather and lace. She is a broken misanthrope, dip-dyed in ivory; she is a thousand lace spirals and bare legs, stick like arms and skewed proportions.
She is awkward, but she is proud; broken, but she remains a Gryffindor.