She's full of awkward pauses & has an everyday forecast of weirdness. Her aloofness blamed on her, as if she walks through a room, desiring to ignore the social & the innocent; and punished on her as if she has carved a heart out for dinner. Has it occurred to anyone that her mind is not even there?
Wherever she's inundated of insecurities she spells them into oblivion, with a shrug. She's so full of unspoken & undiscovered places. So many secrets buried in pits that are now in other pits. Don't go down this path, friend; not unless you're ready for the thorns.
She has the heart of a hurricane, which starts beating like a gentle breeze. She's enriched with the most painful minerals ever discovered. She's so enclosed in her cave, alarm systems sensitive to the tiniest steps of anyone entering her life.
There's no map to her soul, no directions to her mind, no GPS to her heart. Yet, when described by those who don't know her, they suddenly know every inch of her being, and they sum it up by saying: "She thinks she's better than everybody else."
Silence, oh foolish psychic who can read the souls. There might be pain injected in your words.