Curly, unruly, dark brown hair. Deep set, big, honey coloured eyes. Almost oval, sort of symmetric, wheatish face.
Vicariously living in the grey between Murphy’s law and the law of averages was the girl they said wore too much black and very little lace.
She loved ebony, it hid the blue that was carelessly left on her.
Lilacs and pinks wasn’t what she was looking for, but a sliver of silver was also a blur.
A white knight will save the hoary times, they said. Many came riding dashing chocolate mares, with promises of a bright shiny life but left disappointed cause she wouldn’t choose their gliterring wares.
She wasn’t looking for golden adulation or crimson affections. She just wanted someone to help her slay her sooty demons.
Caressing her purple scars in one inky moment, drenched in creamy moonlight she drew her sword and decided to fight.
Muddled whiplashes and bloodied wounds not deterring her sight.
They coloured her crazy, called her a rebel, even a freak.
But the girl who wore too much black and very little lace, had looked at evil dead in its eyes and found in herself a bold red streak.
That ivory girl now shows of her wins shyly with a hint of violet, while her dark brown hair glints with a slash of scarlet!