She's the one with indefinitely many colors in her eyes
That no one really grasps because they're always fleeting
Looking for love, and hiding from heartbreak
And watching the world as it spins and it spins.

She's the one who stands in the rain to wash away
The charcoal from her fingers and the lyrics from her arms,
And lies in the grass to look at the clouds and pretend
That they are taking her somewhere special.

She's the one with the ribbons and the wrinkled linen-lace
And the combats out of place on a windy day in autumn,
Poems spinning round her feet, and words melting
Like dying wax, getting lost under never-painted nails.

She's the one who writes but not about herself,
Because shame doesn't melt away with prose
And her fears are locked away in a candy jar,
With pieces of heart and tears that won't dry.

She's the one who writes letters to God
And tells the green-eyed boy she loves him,
Even though she's torn legs off of crane-flies,
And is not brave enough to write about his smile.