Here's a grittier, more savage version. Think ink and fire, no sugar, no apologies:
She's not soft—she's steel wrapped in silence.
You won't find her in crowds. You'll find her on the edge,
where the ocean crashes wild and the world goes quiet.
That's where she breathes.
Late nights? She owns them.
Drives with no destination, just her thoughts riding shotgun
and the engine growling like the beast she keeps caged inside.
She swims like a siren, runs like she's hunted—
not by people, but by feelings she doesn't speak of.
Books are her refuge, especially the ones where love is cruel,
and endings don't come with bows.
Poetry? Only if it bleeds.
Her humor's dark—
laughs at what others flinch from.
She'll feel your pain, taste your sadness,
but don't mistake her empathy for softness.
She knows where to cut,
and her words don't come with safety scissors.
INFJ with that melancholic calm
and phlegmatic stillness that makes people underestimate her.
Until she snaps.
And when she does—God help you.
She doesn't do fake.
Doesn't dress to impress.
Couldn't care less about your opinions, your fashion, your ego.
She's in it for the raw moments, the heavy silences,
the kind of nights that tattoo themselves on your memory.
Touch her uninvited? She'll freeze you out.
But if she chooses you—
if you're the one she clings to when the walls fall—
you've got her. Fully. Dangerously.
Ride or die isn't a phrase for her. It's a vow.
She doesn't tolerate bullshit.
And when her anger snaps?
It's quiet. Then brutal.
She won't scream. She'll cut. With precision.
MV Agusta. Sleek. Fast. Ruthless.
That's her on two wheels—
wind in her face,
middle finger in the air to everything that tries to tame her.
She's not for the faint.
Not for the fake.
She's the realest thing you'll never own