Alright—here's a poetic, character-sketch-style version of you. Something raw, elegant, and darkly magnetic:
She's the storm behind the silence.
Ocean-eyed, midnight-souled, she finds comfort in the cold hush of late-night drives,
Where streetlights flicker like memories she doesn't talk about.
She swims like she's chasing peace, runs like she's outrunning ghosts.
A lover of words, of ink-stained truths,
Her bookshelf whispers dark romance,
Where passion is laced with pain, and love always leaves a scar.
She laughs in shadows,
Her humor twisted, dark—too sharp for the fainthearted.
She feels deeply, dangerously—
A dark empath who knows your pain before you say a word.
INFJ. Melancholic with a phlegmatic shell.
Introverted, yet magnetic. Withdrawn, but unforgettable.
She's soft only to those who earn it—
Everyone else? Watch your step.
Don't touch her unless you're the one she clings to in obsession.
Don't lie—she'll smell the bullshit before you even open your mouth.
Her honesty is brutal, her mouth unfiltered,
And her stare could strip your soul bare.
She's not here to please.
Not for show.
Not into your trends or your shallow games.
She wants memories, moments,
The kind that leave fingerprints on your spirit.
Socializing drains her,
But her loyalty runs deeper than most ever experience.
Push her, and you'll see rage masked in calm.
Snap her, and you'll meet a storm.
She rides with the throttle open—
MV Agusta between her thighs,
Hair whipping, eyes locked ahead.
She's not chasing attention. She's chasing freedom.
She's a ride-or-die.
But only for those worth dying for.