The wounded girl repeated old patterns.
Shut people out.
When they perhaps deserved a chance.
She never knew if she'd be ready.
Or how'd she know.
If only she'd take the leap.
Into the void.

Instead she chose to hide.
Protect herself from what may hurt.
Because she could never trust them.
And never would.
Only to repeat the pattern.
Over and over.
And lead an unextraordinary life.

Illness perhaps, or love we will never know.
That woman grew old and alone.
Never to have loved again.
And died with a broken heart.