They say that beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, but when you look at her beauty cannot begin to describe. She’s a lonesome tortured soul, yet she shines as if to say she is the exception to the rule. Even in her ripped clothing and her unwashed hair she seems to glisten in the light, she is truly beautiful yet most don’t take the time to see it. Eighteen years old, hardly old enough to be here in this forsaken place. Her pale face seems to hide under her knotted hair. She breathes into her pipe flying away to another world; the smoke suffocates her lungs promising her peace for a little while. She goes mad for a couple grams doing what she can to get her fix. Long nights she lies selling herself to men. She seems to be crumbling slowly. The cuts up her arms remind her she’s alive. She sits on the corner, a girl who has faced many monsters and felt the touch of awful men. She blows into her hands trying to stay warm on this cold winter night. She has such stories and horrors she’s seen that you wouldn’t believe. A life of pain is all she seems to know. She clams to be continent in herself but her eyes speak differently. She continues on with her life, living day by day, fix by fix. She is the definition of beauty; she is the meaning of hope. She is a class A addict with a hunger for healing, a true warrior of life. She is an angle waiting to be saved.