The Heart Vault Girl

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There is a lock in my chest—not placed by birth, but forged by consequence. It is not brass alone, but alloyed with silence, with the cold echo of promises once made and broken like frost-bitten glass.

They call me closed, as if a vault were unnatural to one who has known theft. But what is a heart if not a sanctuary? Shall I keep its door ajar for every passerby, or guard it like the Ark it has become—filled not with law, but loss?

I do not fear connection. I ache for it. I dream of fingers, soft and sure, not to pry the lock but to understand its purpose. To trace its curve without need of the key. To look upon my eyes—not glassed by tears, but reflecting sky—and see the girl, not the gate.

They speak of beauty as that which opens, but I have learned there is a beauty, too, in the refusal to yield. In the slow, sacred rite of earned trust.

What dignity remains in me is not resistance for its own sake, but resilience born of memory. I am not shattered—I am structured. I am not empty—I am sealed. I carry the weight of unopened scrolls, of secrets too sacred to unravel.

And yet... if there exists a soul whose gaze sees not the metal nor the mist in my eyes, but the fire beneath, I would not need unlocking.

I would open on my own.