She is porcelain on the outside—smooth, unshaken. A face sculpted in calm, eyes steady, lips pressed into something that resembles peace. They do not see the storm beneath her skin, the silent trembling of a heart unraveling thread by thread.
Inside, she is all chaos. Thoughts swirl like ink in water, spreading, blurring, impossible to contain. Her mind is a labyrinth of what-ifs and almosts, but she does not falter. She cannot. Not when they look to her for strength, not when they need her to be the unwavering shore against the tide.
So she lifts her chin, lets the world believe she is whole. She smiles when required, nods at the right moments, carries the weight of their worries as if her own are light. They do not see the cracks forming, the quiet way her breath hitches, the nights she stares at the ceiling, wondering if she will ever feel steady again.
But there is something strangely beautiful in the unraveling. A quiet defiance in holding it all together while falling apart. A delicate kind of power in wearing grace like armour, in allowing herself to fracture without breaking completely.
She is coming undone, but she does not collapse. She lets the wind tug at the loose threads of who she was, knowing that whatever remains—whatever she rebuilds—will be something fierce, something new.
And so, she walks forward, beautifully unraveling, eyes ahead, never letting them see her fall.
Shaping the Crazy 