creased, bruised, and probably a bit cracked she was bent, in and out of shape so many times her feelings were far too familiar with contortion but she was whole a parodox, she was. if you asked her what she loved she would probably tell you she was unaware of the word but her veins told a different story, they mapped passages and roads, broken bridges and rigid ropes intertwining and at every end there were images, memories you could touch and tug that would make her eyes sparkle but you'd never guess it see, most days she tends to act like her morning coffee, dark and bitter and I bet if you tried to count her eyelashes as she'd fall asleep you'd lose count and fall unconscious due to her surrounding force she probably doesn't know this but she is art she always has been. not the written or the spoken kind but the kind that's hung up on a wall, highly overpriced and rarely understood her edges were sharp but she had no frame she was art, and I didn't need Picasso's signature to know that.