She’s small but beautiful.

She wears four-inch black heels that should hurt her,
but only encourage the confidence that leaks from her so readily.

Her hair is black and cropped short to frame her heart-shaped face,
and a few strands touch her red, red lips tenderly.

Her dress is as black as her shoes,
cropped shorter than her hair and does not even touch her fingertips.

Her confidence is flattened under the pure *** appeal
that shines through her like spotlight.

She walks carefully, but not because of her shoes;
she surveys the room and thinks them beneath her,
though when she closes her eyes she knows she desires their attention.

Everybody around her wants her to stop being beautiful,
and everybody who is fortunate enough to catch her in a moment of uneasy
want to love her.

When she walks, men line up in hopes to take her hand
and guide her to her destination;
they wait at the bottom of stairs and around corners
in hopes to earn her hand with their generosity.

But she walks slower to ensure her confidence won’t falter,
and she bypasses their hands and hearts, even though she knows she needs them.

She is the keeper of love and loneliness and a siren who needs no song.

Her soul is as black as her heart and her shoes, and she is lonely.

But she is beautiful.