Who is she?
This one, head down, heart weighing heavy. Everyone kept at arm's length.
Seeking solace in superficial friendships; afraid to be vulnerable, terrified what might happen if anyone gets to see behind the mask.
Still smarting from the dawning truth that nothing was sincere; the "of course we'll stay in touch" nothing but hollow, empty words, thrown around so carelessly.
Still bruised and battered from a thousand rejections: squeezed out, ignored, left out, irrelevant.
No place here, no place anywhere.
Her fighting heart gone, all of her passion on the back burner in favour of this hazy existence; meaning very little to anyone at all.
Lonely.
Desolate.
A very square peg in a very round hole - belonging nowhere, longing for anywhere but here.
The anti-Peter Pan, desperate to grow up, make her own way, leave all of it behind her. Every last bit of it; to escape from everything trapping her, fencing her in, keeping her captive.
Nothing certain, no direction, losing hope.
The future's juicy fruit so high up, well out of temptation's way, almost invisible.
Never looking anyone in the eye. Staring down at her feet.
Who is she?
This one, eyes brimming full, heart broken. Still red raw and bleeding.
Breathing a little too fast, a little too shallow.
The one who took a risk, raised the stakes, and lost it all.
Looking backwards, desperately trying to run back in time, fix everything, get back what she lost, what she is certain was stolen from her.
Afraid of her own strength, ashamed of her own opinions.
So used to letting herself feel like she doesn't matter, so used to putting herself last, so used to colouring inside everyone else's lines.
The master contortionist, bending herself over backwards to appease, smooth it all over.
Anything not to rock the boat, so instead it's slowly sinking.
Picking through the wreckage, hoping to find the tattered remnants of her own self among the ruins.
The one who sees the familiar shapes loom and instantly freezes to the floor.
Who wants to run, run, run, far away from those ghosts screaming out of the twilight, but who somehow stands her ground.
Who takes a deep breath, and walks through the door anyway.
The one slowly starting to clamber back to her feet.
Who is she?
This one, head high, eyes shining, steps sure. The world her oyster, possibilities everywhere.
The one bearing scars from a thousand battles, wearing them proudly like medals, each one telling its tale and proving she lived to fight another day.
This warrior, who with each enemy slain only gets stronger.
The one who knows her worth now, sees it, and isn't afraid of standing her ground.
The one who looks in the mirror and recognises the beauty looking back.
The one still no less likely to raise the stakes, to risk it all on one hand, but who understands the odds a little better now.
The one resting easy in the care of true friends, knowing the value of vulnerable, no longer scared to trust for fear of history repeating itself.
This one, learning to hold things lightly, far less afraid of letting go.
Every day fighting a silent adversary, every day winning a hundred tiny victories and celebrating each one.
Not oblivious to her flaws, but no longer letting them hold her captive.
No longer a slave to past mistakes: not hers, not anyone else's.
Gradually accepting that some things are worth fighting tooth and nail for, and some can no more be grasped than the wind; and will be gone just as quickly.
Understanding that the keys to her heart shouldn't be given away freely like happy meal toys, but shouldn't be kept, guarded, forever either.
Finding her voice and the determination to use it.
Bringing those passions back to life again, and starting to figure out how all the pieces might fit together one day.
Walking so much taller now, steady and sure on her feet.
Who is she?
This one, almost completely obscured from view.
The one standing, hazy, way out there in the unknown.
The one the other three wish they could be: wiser, more sure.
More battle scars, but even more victories.
Grown with time, improved with age.
Holding out a hand, beckoning them onwards.
No inkling of what’s to come, no idea what battles they’ll face -
But resting, sure in the knowledge that they’ll live to tell the tale, too - just as she has each time before.
