She said she wasn’t crazy, but her eyes

told stories her lips refused to confess.

A flicker of fire, a hint of a storm,

the kind of woman who laughs while she burns

bridges you haven’t even crossed just yet.

Still, the game calls, and a man must step up.

No half-swings, no leaning back on excuses—

the pitch is coming, fast and wild and hard,

and maybe she’s fire, maybe she’s rain,

but either way, you hold the bat, my friend.

She tells you she doesn’t believe in love,

but watches to see if you flinch at the words.

She says she’s done with all the liars,

the cowards, the boys who promise and fade,

but still she stands, waiting, tapping her foot.

The trick is knowing which storms to stand in,

which games are rigged, which fights are worth the blood.

And sometimes, crazy is just another name

for someone who’s seen too much, lost too much,

but still refuses to sit in the stands.

So step to the plate, grip tight, breathe deep.

Not every pitch is meant to be swung at,

but the ones that are—you damn well better hit.