If you knew her, you’d understand the sagging jeans meant she was too worried to remember to eat. If you paid attention, you’d see the determination and stubbornness etched in the laugh lines around her eyes. You’d notice the frown lines that deepen when a delicately arched brow raises in irritation and disbelief. Her gait shifts with the pressure in the air as she’s walking on knees that remember each prayer or moment of defeat. She knows the sorrow of depression, measuring how bad it is by the images that cross her mind. She knows it’s bad when she stops talking about how bad it is, and instead stops planning for tomorrow.

She’s weathered storms and rallied allies, but understands no one knows what she’s capable of. They’ve never asked, and if they did, they would stand in uncomfortable silence and wonder what she expected them to say. She understands better than they do that they take her for granted, but that will change when their access is denied. She’s walking away and by the time they notice, it’ll be an insult to beg her to stay.

Her head is held high, strengthened by the blood in her veins with generations of heritage cheering her on. They watch her journey from beyond the veil. They cheer her on in ethereal shadows. Whispers of light and a defining breeze are the only way she knows they’re near her.

She walks away swiftly, unsure she can trust the rage in her heart from betraying her in tears. Spite is begging to spit from her lips, aiming darts of fury. Too much has been placed on her shoulders and she won’t let anyone see her collapse. One more day, a week, a month, and she’s imagining rest that may never come.

She’s watching and waiting. She sees where the walls might crumble and the resolve will melt away. She sees pending destruction and she faces it fiercely. These moments are her normal. This is where she thrives. She also knows she might be overreacting. She should offer the benefit of the doubt. This would be the nice thing.

She scratches virgin skin, knowing the itch is a needle craving. Her drug is the pain. She wants to feel the gun vibrate and hum, hitting her over and over with fire that turns to nothing. She likes watching the ink pool with blood on her skin before the artist wipes it away to reveal intricate lines and delicate shading. She’ll sit in silence, with a few tears leaving trails down her cheeks. It hurts like a bitch, but that doesn’t make her one.

She’s in the space of creation. Worlds collide and implode and in the chaos, she’s reborn. She’ll cradle and nurse her healing skin with the memories of rebirth etched just beneath the surface. She’ll speak life into the patch of skin because on this day, the design may be the only source of self love she can manage.

The waves of destruction will spend their anger and the day to day living she craves will lap gently around her. She’ll again see beauty around her and peace in all she touches. She’ll feel the warmth of the sun and the wind washing over her like a bath of purity and balance. She’ll again walk in love, blessing as she’s blessed.

For the moment, she sees her respite as inevitable release. It’s not here or now, but it will be.

She looks toward the sky and whispers to the heavens, “what the actual fuck, man.”