She made broken look, well, broken.

And she tried so hard to not look broken.
She wrapped the sharp edges of glass in a layer of paper and makeup and words,
But it just looked wrong.
It would feel even more wrong, though, to show the world her jagged edges and spidery cracks,
And expect them not to judge.
Of course they'd judge.
Who wouldn't judge someone as broken as her?
Who would even attempt to put her back together?

She made strong look... um...
See, the truth is, she didn't look strong.
Maybe there was a part of her inside that was.
No, more than maybe. That place between
Maybe and not-quite-sure-
But-I'll-get-back-to-you-because-I-think-so.

Actually, maybe just maybe.

She carried the weight of the world on her shoulders,
And it didn't look in any way like a pair of wings.
Some days, she carried it pretty well.
But some days it weighed her down
Until she could hardly walk
From all the words around her,
But the silence within her.
Why does the silence inside hurt worse than silence outside?

Some days she will let someone help her.
She slides a little bit of her load onto their shoulders,
But as soon as she does, she feels bad about it.
After all, they're carrying their own loads,
And no one really wants to listen to her petty worries.
They're dealing with their own problems. She won't add to their burdens,
So she holds in the tears and cries later,
Alone in the woods.
She bites back the sarcastic comments
And curses
And negative thoughts
And turns them inward.
Better than turning them outward, right?
At least that way, she hurts no one
Except herself.

And maybe it wasn't the world that broke her.
Maybe she's the one fracturing herself,
Screaming silently until it presses the tears out of her eyes.
Maybe she's the reason she's broken.
And if broken is supposed to be beautiful,
Wouldn't they like her better if she stayed that way?