The mirror holds a fractured grace, glazed in melancholy.
A vintage gown drapes her sorrowed frame—
beauty hidden in the silence of old seams.
Beneath a spotlight sharpened by judgment,
she once danced to the hush of a blade,
each step a wound,
each twirl a quiet cry.
But when she bled, no hands reached—
only eyes, heavy with verdicts.
They mapped her scars
with whispers cloaked in care,
too late, too false.
Now, she does not flinch.
She gathers their dust
and builds a throne.
She wears her wounds
like medals sewn in moonlight,
her silence louder than their noise—
brave not because she is unbroken,
but because she walks,
unafraid of the cracks.