She is blond and blue and plucked. But no roots to show because through her pale translucent skin are veins filled with blood of the Vikings, the cold Swedish kings with their long blond beards, the thin Swedish queens with their blond eyelashes. Mycket bra, harlig,beautiful. And tall and strong but then translucent and delicate. And those eyelashes; a delicate brush of sunlight against a pale cheek, a tiny blue circle of sky. But darkness added on consuming the unlikely pureness of light eyelashes. So that they become a circle of sky seen through a tiny dark window. Tight, pale skin bearing clothes. Silver piercings with twinkling rhinestones through her face. A tattoo hidden on her hip. Her pupils become large at times and almost completely cover the blue. She hangs with girls in tight tank tops and mascara crusted eyes. Rarely goes to her classes. Stopped by boys with groping eyes in the hallways, so she covers herself with the hood of her jacket. This pure pale thing gone bad, a white crocus crushed under the tread of a heavy boot. Cry out your dark lashes and take the metal out of your face, loosen your binding clothes and be proud and take off your hood. You have ice in your blood, and life blood in your brain and heart. Stop trying to hide who you are. You are harlig and pale and charismatic and intelligent and full of promise. Your biggest enemy is yourself, harlig bollkalle.