She's beautiful, in all her imperfection. The way her dark brown hair lies unkempt, blown wild by the wind. It falls across her face in immeasurable layers. The way her gaudy red lipstick is oily smeared across puckered lips. It contrasts with the ivory bone-hue of her cheeks. The way her lashes, clumped with sticky tar, close and open over deer-in-headlights, ice-blue eyes. The way her nails, gnawed down, are polished a sickly, shiny mucus-green. They chip and flake reflections of metal bands. The way her thighs seemingly expand against the seat she sits upon. Their pasty whiteness flattens soft like dough. The way her calf curves, dangling in mid-air. The wine-stain mark upon her bony ankle - a rouge rash, permanent from birth. The way her stubby toes curl as she kicks her shoes off, barefoot in the breeze of early Spring. That second toe a wee-bit longer than the first. In all her imperfection, she is beauty.