With hazel eyes she used to see the world from every single angle. Her hair was as long as her love for the boy with the brown eyes across the table. With hands with chipped fingernails, she uses to write the poetry that fill her veins, and drew the world in her own way. She felt deeply, and sang soundly under her breath, while everyone loves her to death. A laugh that sounds like a melody, but to her nails on a chalkboard, as she leaves all these compliments ignored. With tears falling down onto the book at 4 am, she fell in love with a fictional him. She is the rarest thing people could see. She's herself and she's free.

Okay, so my friend wrote this about me and apparently this is how everyone sees me.