She reminds me of a marionette. Her strings are taut, she looks impenetrable. But when they loosen she falls apart into a hundred separate fragments--
confused.
When the world is around to pull her together, she is beautiful. When they turn their backs, she is a mess--
all string tangled with string and piece upon piece of contorted confusion. Her disparity is overwhelming, she knows she isn't perfection when she is simply herself. So each new day she tightens her strings to welcome the crowd from her throne. They beckon and wave and praise her shell--
the beauty she projects over them. And not one of them questions her. Nobody asks whether she is happy at night when the crowds have gone home. Not a single soul wants to know if she's anything more than that pretty face that smiles so selflessly down upon them.
She'd cry herself to sleep, but she doesn't see the point. The eyes have to open each morning and put on the same show, week upon week. Month upon month. She never falters, but holds her own, in the loneliest place she will ever know.

(to be continued...)