Her eyes?
Blue.
Not confused blue,
like the thermochromic liquid crystal that oozes from a mood ring,
but like cobalt marbles,
glassy and magnetizing.
The eyes sit in their sockets,
content, in her cinnamon skin.

Her voice?
Sugar-pink.
It shrieks deceit.
Salt crystals line her larynx,
absorbing all moisture and eroding all tissue.
Her throat decays, raw and hollow.
Her alluring song becomes husky muttering.
Suddenly, she has no voice at all.

Her expression?
Wine.
It lacks presumptuousness,
and finds herself disheartened.
Her complexion is one of mulberry chagrin.
The corners of her mouth droop,
cracked, and parched:
the result of sorrow.

Her mind?
Motley.
It cogitates departure.
Her chosen destination is nothing short of utopia:
on a day possessing a cerulean sky, placid streams, and coral peaks,
and at twilight,
overwhelmed by the luminosity of a flaking, crescent moon,
eggshell in color.

Her soul?
Crimson.
It desires triumph,
but faces immutable conflict.
Her heart whimpers: stricken and crushed by jet-black prejudice.
Know that when she coils her brown ringlets around her finger;
She smiles.
Then she acts.