Not a day that goes by she doesn’t judge herself by the trails she’s left with the weights she’s dragged through barbed wire.
Her hands are torn asunder.
Air seems to bend around her as she walks but I can’t tell if it does so out of fear or respect. As chaotic as she is mysterious and as predictable as she is free; there’s never a moment she can’t occupy without thought. Words and sounds, the voice of reason, the voice of comfort, these are her only weapons against the silence she fears. The sweet relief of the sting of silence is the thing she can’t truly stand to bear. She doesn’t need anyone to worry about her because she’s got the worrying perfected to an art that’s painted on a canvas for broken minds, and you can’t help but think:
Wow. A ray of light shining through her broken heart.