She is composed from only the little pleasures of life.
The smell of used books clings to every piece of her body.
Her eyes are the precise color of the most beautiful sunset.
Her hair rests against her back, in waves that make the ocean cry.
No one can recall her name, but we know that she is important.
Someone say her lips taste like strawberries, some say red wine.
We forget the mistakes she made, due to the grace she carries today.
We never question the blood, due to the roses in her hands.
When you pick wild roses, you are bound to get pricked.
That is why we don't question her.

We understand that she is wild, but she is also lovely enough to be worth the thorns' mark.