Eyes so bold they could kill a thousand thoughts.
Lips so red they have tasted the beauty of true love.
Cheeks so flushed, responding to man's compliment in innocence.
A voice so special, one that surrenders to the pity of the silenced women who cover their faces from the pain of yester- years.

She smells like roses. No. Flowers. Fine, chrysanthemums. They're pink. Pink like the bud of her bottom. A Pink that destroys the association to woman.
There is life in her truth and joy in her happiness. And soul in her laughter. She annihilates the shadows of dark memories and turns them into silver linings.

While, others stop to critique, mock and folly this battered system of perfection. Classes; races, wealth and status'. She fades the brutality of this censored war.
The body of her personality illuminates the life in the death of some of these voices.
Turning the other cheek with multitudinous, flawless imperfections.

And as she continues to be whooed by the thousands of books she's read secretly and inspired by the ones she's read aloud. Encouraged by the tales of fiction and non-fiction to conquer in her world. She shields the love that has been forgotten. Guiding those pearled ladies that their jewel is in their pride.

And as she walks, with her head held high. She still smiles. Knowing that tomorrow is a new day with a new purpose.