Peek Inside Insanity

Speaks like fire, an edge of elegance - She is the calm and the storm ~

"The Girl Who Grew Too Soon”

She learned to whisper where angels cry,

to guard the truth and not ask why.

While other kids chased fireflies’ gleam,

she chased the ghosts that haunted her dreams.

A childhood traded for silence and fear,

the laughter she faked so no one would hear.

Her house held secrets that burned like coal,

too heavy for such a fragile soul.

She saw what darkness hides from sight,

the kind that steals away the light.

She lost count of what she'd lost

and innocence came at a brutal cost.

The missing still murmur in her sleep,

their names in shadows run too deep.

And though she smiles — a practiced art —

the cracks still echo through her heart.

She carries the weight no child should bear,

truths too jagged, pain too rare.

Yet through the wreckage, she still stands —

a woman built by her own hands.

Her eyes still shine, though dimmed by past,

the girl who grew up far too fast.

She walks through life — calm, restrained —

with beauty forged from quiet pain.

The walls breathe closer, inch by inch,

The air turns sharp, my muscles clench.

A whisper starts beneath my skin,

A storm erupts — but only within.

My thoughts unravel, tangled, tight,

Each one a spark that feeds the fight.

I claw for calm, but hands slip through,

The darkness knows just what to do.

It mirrors me — my shadow twin,

It wears my face, it speaks my sin.

It says I’ll never break the chain,

That panic is my true domain.

My heartbeat drums a warning bell,

A pulse that traps me in my shell.

Each breath a battle, short and thin,

Each thought a scream I cage within.

But somewhere through the choking air,

A softer voice begins to care.

It whispers low, “You’ve fought before—

You are not less for wanting more.”

The shadow fades, not gone, but known,

It’s part of me — not flesh, but bone.

And though the walls still press and lean,

I learn to breathe between the seams.

The walls start whispering my name,

soft at first, then louder — blame.

I try to move, but every breath

feels like a hand around my chest.

My thoughts get loud, too loud to think,

I reach for calm but start to sink.

The room is shrinking, air’s too thin,

I’m trapped inside my own skin.

My shadow waits — I see her grin,

a version of me I can’t outrun.

She feeds on fear, she knows my pain,

she loves to whisper, “You’ll fall again.”

But I am not that voice, that ache,

not every wound the past can make.

I am the spark beneath the weight,

the heart that still refuses fate.

So I close my eyes, count to four,

inhale the calm I’m fighting for.

The walls still breathe — but I can, too.

And every breath pulls me back through.