Her.

She is delicate on the best of days; shattered on the worst. Her heart trudges through the murky days until she rockets to the skies for the briefest of respites, and then gravity drags her back down into the pitch black of life. She bounces back again, and away, all over the place. She never settles. But she sometimes stops, when the murk drags her down and freezes her limbs so terribly that she cannot bring herself to move them again. And then something, or someone, pushes her forwards and she jerks through the sticky mess to clamber out again, filthy and worn from the weary trudge. There is always a way to come clean, and eventually she feels

     Renewed.

She travels up and down from the height of bubbling laughter to the low of wrenching tears all in the span of a few seconds' time, when she loses control of everything, or rather of the illusion that she ever controlled anything

     At all.

She is terrified of the unknown; she cannot stand the out-of-her-hands though her hands are always too full to hold anything else anyways. She grasps at bright possibilities and claws away the shadowy predictions, and she sometimes falls and ends up scratched, battered, and bruised as a result. She runs too fast and tires out, and then she moves so slowly that she never wants to start running again. She can't stand standing still and she can't move to move on; there's always something to get in her way. Often times it's

     Herself.

She's been broken and glued back together more times than she cares to count, and the half-patched cracks and scratches always seem to throb and sting with memory of a painful past she wished she could forget. And if the cracks were to heal, then the scars would be there still to remind her. The moves she tries to make to change are painful. They stretch the scratches and widen the cracks, pulling at her from every agonizing direction all at one time until she curls up and cries and wishes the pain away, again

     and again,

          and again,

               and again.

She's out of sorts and out of luck, but she never believed in luck anyway. Fate and destiny have always been questionable because it was always her choices that got her from here to there, and now her choices are too hard to choose from. She hates decisions but she want to move, and to move she has to make that choice, with her tired limbs and her mind full of protests; she must choose to move against every cell and every fibre

     Of her being.

Except for that small part of her that still resists, because it is and always has been there, and it always pushes back at the dark, dank pain that consumes the rest of her. She hasn't stopped altogether yet, and that small part of her is still there, fighting. There is a point, and she knows it. There is an end; a result; and she can feel it. There is a light somewhere, up there, up ahead, and always,

     always,

          she can see it.

She is delicate on the best of days; shattered on the worst. Her heart trudges through the murky days until she rockets

     Far from earth.