She was a fighter.
I watched for hours, wishing I could be like that. People shoved her down, physically, mentally, and emotionally. They invaded the very core of her before she learned to build walls, and they had no mercy.
She was spat on, she was kicked, and yet every single time she got up.
It wasn’t always right away, because even a fighter has to mourn, but she always got up.
She fought through him, all his charming smiles, late night texts, and bitter heartbreak.
She bruised her knuckles on her childhood bully, and again in defense of someone else.
And I admired her with young eyes, wondering how she became that strong and wishing I could be like her.
But I was young, and I didn’t read in between the lines.
Because maybe if I had, I would have seen her differently.
Because hidden there, as if wrote in invisible ink, were hidden secrets.
The boy she didn’t get over, the best friends that betrayed her, the friend that left, the brother whom she lost, the hurtful words that she cried over, the dreams that slowly faded because she was told they were worthless.
And that made her a fighter.
All the black eyes, angry and helpless tears, the bruised knuckles, the biting words, the people who she never forgot.
And maybe then, I wouldn’t have wanted to become a fighter so bad.
And I wouldn’t have fought to become one, to become her, and looked behind me at the person I had left, and the person I was becoming.
Because then I wasn’t a fighter, I was just a mourner who had yet to figure it out.