She

She sees her life most easily from third-person perspectives.

Concepts are easier to look at than truth, although both are as elusive.

When angry, she wraps herself in a secret mantle of sadness, and hides herself and her plight from the world,
lest it prove not bad enough.

She wants a tragedy of epic proportions, but with a happy ending.
 
She wants to be wrathful, but is afraid of hurting someone.
She wants to stop hurting, but is afraid to perform.
She wants to perform, but is afraid to be so bold.
She wants to be so bold, but is afraid to let go of her fear.

She is afraid to look at the fact she would rather fail than risk failure.

She sees the world through filters that have been in place for years. 
Sadness is her security blanket,
"I don't know," her armor.

She gallops forward bravely without taking a step,
because she has already beaten herself back.
At night, she self-regales the tales of battle,
and shows off phantom scars to no-one.

Loneliness is her virtue, that which makes her special and pure.
"I'm the only one" she cries,
in ways, of course, no one can hear her.

She fears nothing but fear itself;
it terrifies her.

Every tragic hero needs a flaw, and at that she works to overachieve.

"At least I'm not..."
"Everyone always..."
"It could be worse."

These are the tools she uses to carve her place within the cosmos.
The deep, dark, strong soul lodged behind her psyche sees how dull and ineffective they are.
The rest of her just wonders why she makes so little headway.

How sad it would be to see, if anyone were really watching.

The audience imagined is her excuse to keep her there.

A drama,
with an epic tragedy. 
Performed by one,
for none.

She longs for the curtain...

but knows what's real well enough not to bring it down.