The Girl Who Fell in Pieces

She wasn’t born broken—
she was built from soft things:
the cotton hush of lullabies,
the echo of rain on windowpanes,
a mother’s warm hands
braiding light into her hair.

But the world has teeth
and it bit her young.
Not all wounds bleed,
and not all screams make sound.
Some stay locked
in the throat,
a prison of silence
that tightens with time.

She was ten
when her voice began to splinter.
Not because she didn’t speak—
but because no one listened.

Eleven,
when trust first cracked—
in a room with too many shadows
and no safe exits.
Twelve,
when she learned to shrink
to avoid being seen.

Thirteen,
and she was disappearing
into herself—
a ghost inside
her own skin.

The girl who fell in pieces
never made a sound when she broke.
She simply
fractured
quietly—
like ice beneath feet
too light to notice
until the fall.

They called her “quiet,”
said she was “shy,”
but none saw the war
in her silence.

Inside her chest
was a glass heart,
held together by
threadbare hope
and sheer will.

She smiled in photos,
perfect angles,
chin tilted just so—
but no one noticed
how her hands shook
behind her back
or how she blinked too fast
to keep the tears from slipping.

Every mirror
was an enemy.
Not for how she looked—
but for all it reflected:
the girl who once dreamed
of starlight,
now just stared
into a void.

She stitched herself
each night—
threading apologies
through self-blame,
sewing up scars
with poems
no one would ever read.

And yet,
in her breaking,
she discovered something:

That bones, once shattered,
grow back stronger
around the fault lines.
That light can find
even the narrowest crack
and plant a seed.

She started to write—
first on napkins,
then on skin.
Her pen a scalpel
cutting truth from trauma.
Each word a rebellion
against the silence
that had caged her.

She no longer needed
to be whole
to be powerful.
She wore her cracks
like constellations—
a sky written across her body
in star-shaped scars.

The girl who fell in pieces
learned how to gather them.

Not to put herself back
as she was—
but to rearrange,
rebuild,
redefine.

A mosaic,
not a mirror.
A story,
not a statistic.

Some days
she still shatters.
She still hears echoes
of the things she survived.
But now she knows—
shattered things
can still sing.

She dances now,
barefoot in the ruins,
her laughter rising
from the rubble.

She has made peace
with the girl she was—
the one who bled quietly,
who screamed in silence.
She holds her now,
like a sister,
and says:

“You made it.”

And if you ask her
what it feels like
to fall apart and live—
she’ll tell you this:

It hurts.
God, it hurts.

But the light that leaks
through the brokenness?
That’s where the truth lives.

And the girl who fell in pieces
is no longer afraid
to be seen.

She is not fragile.
She is forged.
She is not damaged.
She is designed—
by her own hands,
by her own will,
by a thousand nights
that didn’t kill her.

She is the storm
that followed the silence.
The bloom
that split the concrete.
The survivor
they never expected
to rise.

And when she walks,
she carries each piece
with pride—
not as burdens,
but as proof
that she is still here,
still whole
in her own way.

Still rising
from the wreckage,
not in spite of it—
but because of it.