She isn't pretty. She isn't tall with long graceful legs and flowing blond hair. She isn't so short and skinny that she could be a bulimic fresh from the bathroom or an anorexic fresh from the crack house. She isn't the classical beauty. She doesn't have raven black hair and sharp cheekbones. She doesn't have skin so pale and clear that she could be mistaken for an ivory statue or an ethereal vision from heaven. Her name isn't Annabel Lee, and if she died, people would be sad, of course - but even at ten, she knows that there isn't anyone willing to dedicate their life for her honor.
Her name could be anything because when you look at her, that's all that you can tell. Anna, Sara, Jennifer - she could pull of Krystal, maybe, or Holly or Patricia. She could even be Cally, the native beach girl with a big towel and a straw hat in hand, always. Stellar, or Sailor Lee - that's pushing it, but still possible. With a face like hers, almost anything is. Even she doesn't see herself as someone particularly attached to her name. She's not quite sure why, but nicknames seem to come easy to her. Ally, Peggy, Lisa, Roxie - she could be any of them, or all of them, depending on who's talking to her. Delilah, though - she isn't a Delilah. She's a Betty or a Nancy or a Sue or a Cindy - she's Plain Jane. She's the girl next door and/or your next ex-girlfriend. She's not someone you'll remember a thousand miles away, not someone you'll call just to hear their voice - she knows that she's not too special.
She's miss No Opinion.
Her face isn't perfectly symmetrical and she's more squat than short. Her teeth are still slightly crooked despite a childhood of braces, and her hair isn't so much wavy as clunky. She says she's lactose intolerant. One week later you'll see her eating mint chocolate chip or cookies and cream, mango sorbet with chocolate whip cream, or white hot chocolate because at least its cocoa free. She isn't ugly. She isn't spherical with multiple chins. She doesn't have a metal back brace to keep her from slouching, and her eyes aren't concealed by inch thick coke bottle glasses and she talks without a lisp.
She's has her own standards - she believes everyone should have a voice and that freedom is as freedom does. She doesn't believe in mass-marketed, mass-produced food due to expire a century from now. She likes berries, though - and fruit and vegetables, and she'll be seen eating a burger, but only if she doesn't have to know (or say) where it came from.
She's not pretty and she's not ugly and she knows she's not the next big thing. If her head's in the clouds, then the day's pretty foggy. You know she'll do the right thing, because what else are girls like her if they're not nice? She won't win the race, but you know she'll do good - not first place, not second, not third (because even she knows she's not the gold, not the silver, not the bronze) but she won't be the last, either - because she has standards, even if you don't understand them.
It's a pretty day and she's setting out - or it's a rainy day and she stumbles into a cave - or it's a dark and stormy night and she sobs as she jerks herself away- or it's a warm and clear night and she follows the new moon - the weather doesn't matter and the politics don't either.
It's a beautiful day, but you're not in love. The sky looks sweet when she drops the bomb at your feet, and her crooked teeth are smiling when you're running barefoot over the hot tar because she knows that even if you stop her feet will still burn.
The scars on your feet and her heart don't bother telling otherwise.