She threads lightly over a surface of thin glass, unaware of the desolation that lies under it. She gives the impression of being untroubled by wind or rain, but those who watch her closely know better. Behind the apparent grace there is a conscious effort, intentional and self-aware. Underneath the head held high lies and abyss of weakness and fear. For a brief moment only, I held in my hands the right tool to shatter the glass, unveil the poise of grace and force her to look down, to the ground, to the hell that threatens to envelop her with every step she takes. I had that chance, and gave it up without a second thought, without regret. The day of reckoning will come, the day when she finally looks at herself in the mirror and sees herself for what she truly is, with all the beauty and ugliness and dark pits and fiery chasms. But I won't be the one holding the mirror up high.