She is not,

In the 115 weight range,

And her tattered jeans,

Are held together by,

Safety pins,

Decorated with tiny glass beads.

And patches,

Are sewn over the holes,

In the back pockets,

And knees.

An old record player,

Full of static,

Plays jazzy tunes,

In her quirky bedroom,

And badly taken photographs,

Cover her walls,

All of them showing her,

Freckled,

With lively green eyes,

But they also show a boy,

With black hair,

A dimple,

And brown eyes.

She had always been warned,

About blue eyes,

But her heart broke,

Because a pair of brown ones.