She is a stuttering soliloquy.

A wounded symphony played by an orchestra of her family’s “I-told-you-so’s.”
A tattered woman who bleeds like an oak tree.
Her life story is just a sandpaper love song written on a napkin full of all the reasons why no one should ever try to hug the rain.
You always end up soaking wet and by yourself.

She.
A rusty faucet, dripping self esteem that falls quicker than short skirts in motels when the sun blinks for too long.
You see, when confidence hits the ground, it echoes like sin in a room full of God,
And I could hear her coming a mile away.

She has violin strings for legs,
A graveyard of awkward treble clefs buried in her knees,
And I can see the suffering inside of the concert of her walk…