She Wears Hearts Like Armour

She Wears Hearts Like Armour

She wears hearts like armour, pressed into her skin,

soft shapes pretending they do not remember pain.

Each one holds a story, a silence, a swallowed cry,

petals of love that never quite learned how to die.

Her eyes are violet storms, restless and wide,

holding secrets she no longer tries to hide.

There is a tremble beneath her painted calm,

a quiet ache beneath every offered palm.

Leaves gather around her like whispers of earth,

green breaths reminding her of forgotten worth.

Still she stands, unbroken in fragile disguise,

a woman rebuilt from her own goodbyes.

Her lips burn red with all she will not say,

words like embers she keeps tucked away.

There is fire there, there is truth held tight,

there is a war she wins each night.

Do you see her, or only what you believe,

a face adorned, something easy to receive?

Look deeper, where the shadows softly start,

she is not decoration, she is a beating heart.

And though love has marked her, time after time,

she carries it still, like a sacred sign.

Not broken, not lost, not torn apart,

she wears her wounds, and calls it art.

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