(43 drafts in here)   She was born with a map no one else could read-  
a constellation of bruises and brilliance,  
stitched into the silence between her ribs.  

Not loud, but never soft.  
She moved through rooms like a shadow with purpose,  
never asking to be seen,  
only daring someone to look.  

Her laughter-rare,  
like rain in a drought-  
carried the weight of things she never said.  
It wasn't joy.  
It was defiance.  

She loved like a secret,  
fierce and unspoken,  
and mourned things  
before they ever left.  

People called her strong.  
But strength is a lonely crown  
when no one asks how heavy it is.  

She built walls out of wit,  
doors out of silence,  
and windows out of dreams  
she never dared to name aloud.  

And when she cried-  
it wasn't for herself.  
It was for the version of her  
that never got to rest. She folded her heart into paper-  
creased it with care,  
pressed the edges of every "almost"  
until they looked like wings.  

A thousand cranes,  
each one a breath she never took,  
a word she swallowed,  
a door she never opened.  

They flutter in her chest now,  
restless,  
waiting for wind.