Craters of the Yellow Moon

After my introduction (see below) I thought it would be appropriate to begin with the work that inspired the name of this website: "craters of the yellow moon". I believe I wrote this passage either senior year of high school or freshman year of college.
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Her dimples resembled craters of the yellow moon. But her heart soared among the stars. She wished on comets, prayed to planets, and dreamed of the constellations. Her head was not in the clouds, but her thoughts were muddled and confused, as if her mind floated in a pink orb of bubble gum, always uncertain and ready to pop. There was pain within her enlarged pupils; black holes that truly traveled to the depth of her thoughts, the epitome of her hunger. When people gazed into her eyes, she wanted to tightly grab their shoulders and shake profusely to rid them of their fallacies. She wanted to push them through her gaping wounds, visible behind her glazed eyes, so they would sink to the bottom of her stomach, and she would not feel empty any more. She wanted to devour someone with love and she wanted to be craved and engulfed in return. However, a sense of hopelessness was never-ending. It loomed over her, like a lurking shadow would as it silently stomped through her engraved footsteps. All of her actions were remedial; they traveled in a destructive circle and she felt consumed with claustrophobia. She was trapped - in an invisible, vulnerable glass box, easily broken but never actually peered into. She was a goldfish in a tank of dirty water: algae and her own filth surrounding her. But it was not all so gloomy. She still had hopes, despite the desperation. But she considered herself blind for maintaining such feelings. Blind from reality, because she was, in fact, deceiving herself. She was a contradiction in a world of normalcy. She was an unintentional hypocrite in a world of black and white. But mostly, she was a flawed, lonely saint in a world of happy sinners. Where would she find her white and golden wings? When would she fly again? Would her potential ever amount to anything of substance, anything at all? Would a solution to the world's problems ever fall into the wrinkled palm of her hand? Or would the boulder that she carried on her back succumb to gravity and let her be free...