On the outside, she holds all the fibres together and masters control and strength with the stealth of silk. On the inside, she is losing a hundred battles every day, and nobody is none the wiser.

Each day reads like the final line from the greatest novel ever to have stained the paper with it's presence.

She stains everyone with her presence.

She scrapes the walls with the scavaging desire to belong, to something. The only thing to bend and break will be the grasp on her self.