When too good to be true
Meets the woman with her glass half-empty,
She shuffles from room to room
Quiet footsteps across forgotten floors,
Piecing back the hearts of the wounded,
Wounds only her spirit could truly read.

Darkness was her birth canal,
But somehow, light slipped through the cracks
Not in bursts, but in soft, stubborn glimmers.
She was beauty.
She was strength.
But beneath her ribcage lived the dust
Fragments of battles fought in silence,
Memories she swept under her own smile.

She stitched together the pain of others
Like patchwork faith,
Each tear, each scream she swallowed,
Just to feel a sense of form
A body built from borrowed hope.

Another person’s joy
Was a vapor she inhaled like salvation.
But slowly,
She evaporated into “more”
More for them,
Less of her.

And as she disappeared into the invisible
The muse, the healer,
The one who was always “okay”
No one noticed
How loud it is
When a woman vanishes
Without making a sound.