You have bad hair, child. Each strand is like a snake that curls to asphyxiate those that get close to you. The whipping tails, thrashing and lashing. The color dull, the shine long gone. It grows out only to conceal a long neck, full of brown dots forming odd shapes. They map out no treasure, and swallow up sexual allure.
You have sad eyes, child. Their noise is a wailing lament.
You have crooked lips, child. And when you speak to push out a voice marked with irony, they form a sinister shape. It is better to keep them closed. Better to not reveal teeth eager to bite down, even when there is nothing to chew on.
You have long arms, child. When outstretched, they reveal your needs, of which you have many, all centered on the desire for a warmth you have never known, only imagined. Your hands cannot create the blanket you wish would protect you.
You have small breasts, child. There is no woman to be found in your shape. Among the ordinary, you blend in like the browns and the blues. The curve in you is in your mind.
You have long legs, child. Walk straight with careful steps, or else you will trip over yourself. Those pale things possess no strength, and they are built without a hint of grace.