She was born with bright, green eyes and a plastic tiara on her head.

She didn't mind that it was plastic.

She blinked a lot and heard a a lot.

When she blinked, her eyes got brighter.

And what she heard made her laugh.

And at night, she put her tiara in the basement where she always danced.

As her legs grew, so did her eyes.

Made it harder to blink.

So she stopped blinking and started seeing.

Her ears grew too,

So she stopped hearing and started listening.

And what she heard made her giggle,

but she didn't know why.

And what she saw made her scared but she didn't look away.

And at night, she put her tiara in the basement where she sometimes danced. 

Soon it became that she heard school bells, but they never made her laugh.

She saw boys and wondered why they never seemed to see her too.

She saw fear and heard crying.

And she couldn't understand why it made her taste tears

even though she wasn't crying.

She saw kids walking on the opposite side of the road,

and being kicked out of their homes for doing so.

She heard screams and sirens,

and she tried to laugh but sounds swolled her voice and ran with it.

And at night, her tiara lay in the basement where she rarely danced.

Her eyes kept growing, but she forced herself to blink.

Her ears grew even more,

but she chose to fill them with melodies instead of conversations.

Crowds terrified her, but her parents loved to make her squirm.

And she hated that her tiara was plastic.

And it collected dust in the basement where she never danced.