She breathes in shards
She laughs like an unfinished song—
all melody, no return.
Wears lipstick like armor
and kindness like a borrowed coat
two sizes too large.
She collects cracked mirrors
not to look at herself—
but to see how many versions
can survive the breaking.
She tells me she’s fine
with eyes that scream
in Morse code.
Once, I caught her staring
at a calendar that never turned.
She whispered,
“I think I lost myself in February.”
She sings lullabies
to ghosts she never buried.
Plants flowers
where bruises used to bloom.
People say she’s strong—
but she just learned
how to bleed in invisible colors.
And if you ask me
how well I know her?
I only know
she sleeps on the edge of the bed
as if too close
might burn me.
She once told me
“I love you”—
like a funeral hymn.
And now?
She’s the light switch
I never dared to flip again.
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