She is the bravest person that I have ever met,
Despite the constant quiet fear
That makes her appear wholly unremarkable.
She has a small scar on the side of her wrist
That she finds herself rubbing in times of stress,
A tiny raised knot of flesh that you would not notice.
She has an almost imperceptible dip in her skull
Just beneath the line of her hair,
That she imagines aches constantly.
She has thin silver marks on her forearms
Indirect reference to old hurts
That well up unexpectedly to choke her.
She has astonishing reserves of bravery
That she uses to wake up every morning
And live as a part of the world.
She has a bitter understanding of cruelty
That she cannot help but replay
In the faces of prospective friendships.
She has nothing untainted by bad black memories
That she does not allow herself to think about
But which have distorted everything.