In a way

It's in the way she walks- sometimes head held high, hands wrapped tightly around her waist, or even her eyes pasted to the floor.

It's in the way she speaks to others- boisterous and obnoxious, shy and afraid, or monotone and unexpressive.

Her hands and mouth her self-defense. Not in a sense of striking violence, but the way she spits sarcasm and whispers her true voice. Her hands in the way she speaks- the first line of defense moving away from her body also the first way she is targeted.

Always tempered like treated metal, she never truly speaks her mind. Her voice is hushed and shouts for the world to hear within the four walls of her mind. Never listened to but always questioned- yet still her voice is quieted. Her questioned ran 'round in circles, and never find the end of a maze.

Treated lesser than, thought so much more of. Expectations higher than mountain peaks thought possible. Feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders, she crumbles. Yet wanting nothing more than approval. Oh, sweet approval tastes as sweet as her freedom. And it all - tastes like the sweetest of cream, the saltiest of sea salts. How she wishes for what she can not have- for what slips through her gentle grasp.

Not easy to demand when she cries in anger- Not easy to demand when she cries if confronted. The way she adapted to trauma did not make her all that stronger- it warped her sense of strength. Making her the dependable one.

The wise one, the smart one, not so much the strong one. Sometimes the one that digs herself in a whole bigger than she can get herself out of. Seeing those ahead of her, older and wiser- others not so wiser, stumbling as they grow.

Learning from the mistakes of others has been another pride of hers, Not having to misstep like others, but seeing how their missteps can make them stumble. Knowing she can afford that. However, there are those, older but not wiser- that see those in her life stumbling and they rub her nose in it like a dog who has had an accident in the house. She does not need that. She has said that repeatedly, yet again- no one listens.

No one will listen, It will be that way as far as she sees. So she writes her truth, she uses her written word as her speaking voice. Her hands mold her words into beautiful creations- looking like marble statues. Worked down to the bone- she never sees her words through a different lens- only seeing them as a voice she could never speak.

She writes in a switching perspective, because for as long as she has lived- as long as she has perceived. She wished she could understand- truly understand the way people thought and moved- talked the way they did. So she writes, deliberately with the brush strokes in mind so she may not be in the dark. As someone never told the truth within the realm around- even within the life she led- she writes and writes so that it is clearly laid out in front of her. The blueprint like the veins so clearly printed on her calves- something she sees, knows is there but others are not privy to.

Read what she can not say. Know and take with a grain of salt- that it is within her own head that it has been brewing. Brewing in silence, in hurt. So read her hurt. See why she approaches differently in each way she speaks. Why she never actually stands as tall as she should- talked down most her stature. Read her pain and understand that all she craves, to ascertain- to obtain is people to hear her words.