She breathes in shards

She laughs like an unfinished song— all melody, no return. Wears lipstick like armor and kindness like a borrowed coat two sizes too large. She collects cracked mirrors not to look at herself— but to see how many versions can survive the breaking. She tells me she’s fine with eyes that scream in Morse code. Once, I caught her staring at a calendar that never turned. She whispered, “I think I lost myself in February.” She sings lullabies to ghosts she never buried. Plants flowers where bruises used to bloom. People say she’s strong— but she just learned how to bleed in invisible colors. And if you ask me how well I know her? I only know she sleeps on the edge of the bed as if too close might burn me. She once told me “I love you”— like a funeral hymn. And now? She’s the light switch I never dared to flip again.