She was
Wasted space
In a catalog of people.
All loudly displaying
Some sort of talent.
Leafing through the pages
You find them
Dancing gracefully
  Playing with a ball
   Singing a melody
    Solving a math problem
     Being a beautiful model
      Strumming a guitar.
Flip to the page
And find an unknown girl
With bland brown eyes
And brown hair
With tears streaming
Down her pale face
Because she could not perceive
her gift.
  She was barley even visible
   And everyone surpassed her.
What a waste of space
In a catalog full of people
  Blooming with talent
   While her only talent
    Was being invisible.

Once a girl
Had seen me cry
And attempted to repose me
By telling me
There is nothing wrong
With being sensitive

What she didn't know
Is how it felt
  To have glassy eyes
    Accompanied by blurred vision
     And a puffy scarlet face
To hold on to salty tears
Until my head split with aching pain
  Because I was so terrified
   Of anyone catching a glimpse
    Of my canary yellow heart
     Turn cobble stone grey

I love mysteries
but not just the type
  printed in black ink
   in binded books
I enjoy the mysteries
that walk
  that contain a set of lost eyes
   whose lips speak words
    in a particular voice
whose ears always have earphones
whose mind drifts off
  whose face of concentration
   is something quite beautiful
I like that kind of mystery
whose laugh is unique
  whose smile is a rarity
   and has rarely spoken
    to me
we only speak with our eyes
exchanging wondrous stares.

larger eyes
longer lashes
tinier waist
thinner hair
oval face
smaller ears
straight hair
what I wish for
what a waste,
who said beauty
was the look of your face
and the measure of your waist