Frailty thy name is woman...
Frailty thy name is woman, a woman lost
Frailty thy name is woman, a woman lost. A woman with no purpose. It is an endless haze of faces and names. Where time passes but events do not proceed – the grain of sand does not fall, but is suspended. Like she.
Her face grows weary and slack. Her words a fraud. Practiced. Rehearsed. For she does not hear a thing. She is deaf to the world that suffocates her. She cares not for the silence, for then she can not hear her ragged breaths. The beating of her broken heart.
She does not know if she agers. She sees not herself, in the shinny reflection of the one object that screams her shattered dreams. Her despair is not laid in the lines of her face. But the diamonds that slide between them. Her tears a constant stream. The only thing that soothes the harshness her life.
She would breathe the oxygen. If only it was not poison. If only it would not kill her. Kill her to believe. To admit. To crumble under the weight that slowly pushes her into the dirt. She belongs there. In the dirt. Why fight it? Only to see the truth. The pain. How can she breathe when her oxygen has vanished?
Her chest is tight. Her lungs are dry. Her heart is slowly. She is drowning on nothing. Suffocating on a fabrication.
Frailty thy name is woman, a woman in love.