She is

She's too pretty. Pretty like other girls can only wish. She's pretty like she doesn't even try to be. She's pretty like she doesn't even know. She has messy hair, that looks as though she's just rolled from bed, and put it up. The pony tail is un-even, un-centered, and it's the cutest hairstyle that any one had seen. It couldn’t be mimicked; no one else would pull it off. She stands there with her dollar store barrettes in un-matching colours and her light pink eye make-up over dark blue eyeliner that'd not to thick and looks at least a day old. She is the most beautiful girl in the room, and she's done nothing to earn the title. She radiates this sort of light from her when she smiles, and everyone holds their breath when she blinks, in anticipation of those eyes resurfacing from behind her long black lashes. She laughs like a real person, loud and quick with tiny snorts when she is too excited. She is wearing a t-shirt with the collar cut off so that it is loose and falls from her shoulder. She is carrying a side bag that she made for herself. Inside are 4 different flavors of lip gloss, a picture of the first boy who broke her heart, and a film case full of quarters for the streetcar. Her shoes have holes, her socks have holes, but not in the same places, so no one can tell. Her skirt is short and ruffled. She bought it from a ballet school she volunteered at, from a girl who quit lessons after he instructor yelled at her for slouching. Lucky break. Her fingers are decorated with plastic metallic painted rings, and bright blue nail polish. The bottom 2 inches of her stomach show when she lifts her arms to dance as the opening band plays its heart out to the 16 people who came for when the doors opened. Even though she doesn't like their music style, she likes that they can make a living doing what they love, and that alone is worthy of her swirling hips and swaying arms. She can't remember what she was listening to, or the name of the band, or what their style was later, but she remembers she loved their set, and she tells them so on her way out later than night. As the people pack in she gets shuffled into the crowd. She remains just another head in a room full of sweat and strangers and the blend of smells that is a club on a band night for a sold out show that the punks came to kick ass during. She doesn't mosh, but she holds her own. If she gets pushed, she revenges her attacker with a smile and a fumbling of her purse on her shoulder, and then whoever he was feels bad, and makes sure she's okay. She's always alright, but it makes her happy to make strangers care about her well being by smiling. She has storybook looks that captivate her audience with each different scene they behold. Each time she turns around it's like they turned a page and have seen the princess for the first time ever. She is too sweet to ever be tasted by any of them she rots their teeth from where they stand. Her father was a dentist, it was cheaper that way. As the bands stop playing and the encores are over and she's cheered herself horse, she exits with the stream of cattle as they heard through doors, down hallways and free range out into the street. She walks home by herself, cutting across backyards and over fences. She sneaks in the back-door, kisses her mother who is asleep on the sofa after attempting to wait up, and goes to bed after leaving her things in the kitchen to be found when they wake up in a few hours. She'll sleep in until noon the next day, just because she can.