She once was spring, a blooming flame,
A girl of light, of voice, of name
A mind so sharp, a soul so wide,
With dreams too vast to run or hide.

They crowned her bright, their perfect pride,
But only when she stood inside
The lines they drew with iron thread
A silent script she always read.

Their words, like frost, would sting and burn,
Praise that twisted with each turn.
"You talk too much." "You shine too loud."
"Shrink yourself to make us proud."

She danced once free, a stage her own,
But now she tiptoes, skin and bone.
Her music drowned in bitter sighs,
A storm disguised in lullaby.

The mirror weeps the girl she knew
A voice once rich now split in two.
The books she loved, the art she made,
All smudged by hands that should've stayed.

Expectations like dying trees
Fall heavy with the autumn breeze.
Each leaf a dream that couldn't stay,
Each root a chain she can't betray.

She walks alone through golden dust,
In shoes that rot, in steps she must.
The wind still sings of who she was
But silence answers, just because.

Yet deep beneath that cracking ground,
A seed remains, not yet unbound.
And maybe when the cold is gone,
She'll bloom again, a brighter dawn.