She is not perfect.

She is rough around the edges.

She is good on the inside,

But others do not see the goodness in her.

She only wants to feel.

Something.

Anything.

So she cries herself to sleep.

"Short,"

"Loud,"

"Annoying."

Only scratches the surface of her perpetual state of ruin.

But she is also strong.

She has her own free will.

She is not worthless.

She does not need love from others.

She is free.

She is a rainstorm in the sunshine.

Not one soul can bear her down,

When she has fire in her heart.