She's too young for this labyrinth of scars,
too young for the weight her eyes carry,
but still, there they are.
etched lines on her soul,
stories she never asked to tell.
The wind blows and she flinches,
not from the chill,
but from ghosts that linger in places
where her childhood should have been.
She smiles sometimes,
but it’s hollow,
something borrowed,
fading before it reaches her eyes.
And still she stands,
fragile, but somehow unbroken,
as if daring the world
to try again.
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