The other day, thoughts of dying crossed my mind infinitely. Each stance, they circled my head,, my mind disapproved,, saying there was still left in her, either to be broken, or to be risen like a skyscraper.
I wish, from hereon, I could write her down as a phoenix emerging from ashes, but that'd be a terrible lie.
What remained of her, moulted out of her, piece by piece.
Is it painful? No. Not now. Is it a sweet reincarnation? No. Not anymore.
Was she always so helpless? No. Not then. Was she always a sad soul? No. Never before.
Hands she held with faith, twisted her wrist. People she called her own, turned out, she was walking aligned to strangers, nothing of her kind.
So, she left, reasons unsaid.
You think she gave in so easily? No. She assembled,; she also revolted.
Only now, the war was with her own demons. And then, there was still left in her, either to be broken, or to be risen. I wish I could say otherwise, but she broke.