My name is Ciara. I am fifteen years of age, I have soft black hair, running the length of my back, to my waist, light skin, and apparently have the eyes that pull the warmth out of any room.
Wide, and most likely staring in an accusing manner, I have been told my eyes rear the plain fear in people's hearts, and have such a strange, mysterious quality.
I stand at five foot and eight inches tall, and I hold my head high, never letting the gossiping and condescension drag me down, into a pathetic spiral of constantly worrying about what thoughts slide through my peer's minds when I walk past.
I refuse to care.
This is who I am, I have never apologised for it, and I never shall.