Poem

She traces lines along her skin, like whispers only she lets in. Each mark a map, a muted cry, a way to feel when feelings die.

The world sees grace, a gentle face, but never storms she can't erase. So when the silence claws too loud, she draws her pain, not wearing shrouds.

She doesn't want to fade away — she just needs something real to say. And when no words will ever do, her skin becomes her canvas too.

She dreams of wings — of leaving scars, of flying past these metal bars. Not wings of angels, not of gold, but ones that lift her from the cold.

She doesn't wish for pity's gaze, just softer nights and lighter days. She wants to heal, but doesn't know how to let the darkness go.

She watches butterflies and tries to feel the light behind her eyes. "Maybe I was born to break — but maybe breaking's what it takes."

So if her silence is there, with sleeves that hide what's hard to bear, don't ask for truth or beg for why — just help her learn again to fly.

Because beneath the hurt, the ache, the plea, she's still the girl who wants to be free. And maybe someday she will believe — the wings she needs were always beneath.