A handful of metaphors.

She was hair tied back in a tight ponytail. When she made quick confident strides along school corridors, it would swish from side to side, sometimes hitting people in the face. She tucked loose strands behind her ears on which hung golden hoop earrings (a gift from her grandmother) she never removed. Unless she needed to dry her hair in the thin air of the early mornings, she never let her long hair down. Never. On those mornings when she did though, she liked to imagine a soft breeze that would pick up the secret fragrance of shampoo from a lock of her hair and carry it to some secret place, far, far away.

She was brand new real estate. A well-built 2-storey apartment on a freshly-trimmed lawn enclosed by iron grated fences in the suburbs. She was all boarded up--her windows were tightly shut, the hinges on the doors were terribly squeaky--she was lonely. And lifeless. And empty. But you didn't seem to mind. On that day you visited her, you swung open every window, you unlocked the dusty attic doors, you filled the house with all the air and light that you could. With you, she breathed again. You gently put your life into her palm like a gift, and wrapped her fingers around it. You took her by the hand and she saw enough reason to keep holding on.

She was a play written by someone you had never heard of, and you were cast in the lead role. Everyone's eyes were on you. You were the star. Lines had been memorized, scenes had been rehearsed, the stage was set. All you had to do was to impress the audience. The curtains parted, and the light was in your eyes. You couldn't tell who was watching as she tossed you up and knocked you down through her complicated plot, but you could hear every murmur, every snicker among the audience. When the final scene ended though, one could hear a pin drop in the silence. Tears were streaming down your face as she left you, as it was written. You knew how she had to end. She was a tragedy, but you, you received applause.