About The Most Amazing Person I Know

She stands behind the ironing board, in a long black skirt. It billows in the wind because the window is open. She sings, as she holds down the tissue paper, a French song, about prostitutes. She doesn't know what the words mean. She sings with her eyes closed. Her voice is soft, un-finished, and edgier than if she had been trained. But it fills the space. And when she catches you watching her, she opens her eyes wide and laughs. Her eyes are blue, a blue that changes all the time. And sometimes they even glitter. That's a special moment; when you catch that. But she is totally oblivious to it. She doesn't realise very often that people are watching her. They do watch her. All the time, not because she is pretty. She isn't, and she knows it. But it doesn't matter. What she is makes you forget that. She is beautiful, and not pretty. Hey, she could be a renaissance chick. But it's all stifled. She hates herself. She cuts herself. But no one notices. Maybe she wants to be noticed, but I don't know. She uses a penknife. She doesn't know that I know. She pretends that she is always happy. She feels she has to. That used to be called one of her virtues. It was often said 'How Lovely it was that she was Always Happy' . She isn't though. Hardly ever. And only the wrong things make her happy. I don't know whether they are the wrong things. Other people say they are. But they don't know. What makes her laugh is when they presume. They presume to know all about her, when really they don't know anything. She doesn't tell anyone anything. Except me and a few others. I flatter myself that she does, obviously. She's afraid of getting hurt. Because she gets hurt quite easily. She gets lost when involved in relationships like that. I think she expects too much. She gets so attatched to people. And she doesn't realise that they love her really. She cannot see the bigger picture really. She thinks only about what is missing. And then people don't realise how much they hurt her. I can't really count the amount of times I've seen her with her smudged eyeliner. When she doesn't smile, she looks lost and the big blue eyes, so sad. No apologies, if you don't like her, if you don't like me, fuck off.

I didn't write it, someone else did. I'd like to think it's true. She,(the girl) she won't ever think so.

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: