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She is all dreams and no talk,
blank hopeful blue eyes and a pale face.
She sits alone,
content and whole.

Her polar persona across the room:
the anxious girl
with both feet planted firmly on the ground,
long black straight hair broadcasting that there was one way to do things,
and to do them right, shining as the epitome against the messy curls and split ends
of the other girls. Perfectionism was her comfort,
the skin on her body taut against her bony back and fasted organs.

Only one of them would gain the approval of authority and institution.
The other would just be what she was meant to be: happy.

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