Everyone knows exactly what kind of girl she is. She’s the kind of girl who’d be the first to remind you that the sun is just a hot ball of gas when you marvel at the colors of a sunset. She’s the kind of girl who listens to pretentious indie music and whose favorite movie is probably something from before the 1950s. She’s the girl who makes off-handed comments about how messed up the world really is and how capitalism will most definitely end in hell-fire. The kind of girl who’d kick a man in the balls if the need arises (and maybe even if it doesn’t). You think you know her, but you never actually do.
If you look closely enough (if she lets you look closely enough), you’d see the dented halo resting on top of her badly-dyed, bleached, blonde head. It’s dim and it doesn’t glow as brightly as it should. But it’s there and when the world is dark enough, when the stars and moon won’t shine for you, it’s the brightest thing around.
She also has wings. They’re hidden under her shiny leather jacket that smells of death and cigarettes, and they don’t work very well. They’re broken and bent and mostly useless. But every once in a while, when the rain beats down you so hard you can feel your skin breaking, she’d spread them wide and you’d rest under them and the relief they’d provide can’t be explained in mere words.
She doesn’t like her reflection, either. She only sees the devil in her soul when she looks at it. She can’t remember the color of her eyes anymore and when she cries, the stardust caked beneath her eyelids mixes with her tears and it’s the ugliest thing you’ll ever see.
Her breath smells like regret and peppermint and blood. She laughs like poison and sneers like a poem. Her smile never reaches her eyes and hands are always cold. And there’s something so inherently sad about her. She’s the train-wreck you can’t help but stare at, unblinking, unbelieving, very ashamed.
She keeps secrets like you’d keep pets. She grooms them, lets them grow, she lets them fester. And she loses them, sometimes. She can’t keep track of how many she’s lost. And when they’re loose, they devour everything in their wake. She can’t believe how many there are. Inside her, around her. They’re everywhere.
She’s an angel. She’s a monster. She’s the storm brewing and the lightning that comes after. She’s the universe. She’s the void. She’s infinitely vast and infinitely empty. She’s heaven and hell and everything in between.
How did they ever think they could define her?