She puts herself out on a limb
every time she tries to coax some
kind of acknowledgement out of them,
but instead of ending up better,
she finds her spirit broken over again,
adding more fragments to the
Saturnian rings that make up her aura.
She has never learned to refrain
from poking around in the ashes
of the bridges she burnt, maybe
hoping against hope, that some of
the ghosts she raised would rewrite
the stories into the fairy tales she craves.
Sometimes she prides herself on
having broken the cycle of destruction,
but as long as her skin is too thin,
her goal is their approval, and
she caves in to the radiation of their
indifference, she is in a halfway state.