She had worn so many hearts of tragedy on her sleeve that it was a tattered ruin. Few wanted to see this, and those drawn to her were of like mind or afraid so that any light there was lost; some poorly understood power was there such that none close to her dared shed illumnation. Sad, as when one looked past her designed shell what was real was worth knowing. Her loneliness was borne of holding that arm out, shouting at people who she was, rather then letting them simply see for themselves. She saw nothing of value there, she was so afraid others would discover her hollow. She did not like herself, but wanted all to like who she wanted to be. It wasn't clear she even knew who she really was anymore. She did not want to be the soul of her flaws, yet needed those flaws to excuse her, and so wrought high drama to all that was her life's tale so that one was bewildered by the tempest, blinded to see only that which she permitted. This came to define her and rendered her unknowable. She painted herself in bright and then dark colors as her mood was wont, set the narrative of the moment, and it was these waves of comedy and tragedy that made her. She wailed of her despair on tinned ears, she rent at the clothing of her script such that no one could read it, then complained of the rain that washed all away. And should one glimpse behind the torment, the ice there froze so fiercly one never looked again. Never had anyone hurt her more than she hurt herself, and still she felt no love, and feared all against her. She plotted the demise of one and all to unleash at any moment of threat percieved. One wearied at the waiting, and so often wandered away.
She died lonely and alone surrounded by friends who could no longer stand the sight nor sound of her tattered sleeve, for there was nothing else to see.
