She was a shy girl, says the books

on the blue shelves of her bookcase;

a quiet girl, whispers the colors of her walls:

but an organized girl, chant the video games

lined up on her shelves.

 

Her room was her cave, mutters the door 

that was often closed and the window that

almost always was closed.

She has many friends, say the pictures on

the cluttered but used desk.

 

She is a painter, says the small shelf

containing her various watercolors:

and she once played flute like her mother

proclaim the dusty cases containing flutes 

on the bookshelf.

 

She rarely had friends over, says the abstract

messes located in different spots.

She was creative, say various writings

that were scattered throughout the room:

but something went right for her.