Her mind is different, understanding the perspective of life in a way no one else would ever think to view it, never think to think it. She sees color but in black and white, she hears voices that dictate her choices, but those arguments she fights with herself.
No, she was not a unique person, nor will she ever be. Her mind is a twisted pathway that holds dark corners of insecurities and rejections and her very own self-reflections that take away the true glimpses of the woman in the mirror. No, she was not a unique person because she did not feel herself to be one, and she understood that.
She knows you didn't, at first.
Her stomach is the hole of her mind and her heart, triggering emotions and obsessions that reveal nothing but attention in the way she would never see herself. Her smile holds nothing, a face of light and joy, but its meaning resists the good-hearted with pride. No, she isn't unique because she detests the body of the angel and follows the critic of the devil, and her opinions are what society uses to feed programs, restrictions, and unhealthy evaluations. You know she isn't unique.
She hates you for it.
Her love is fake for she does not return it to where it came from. Her heart is cold, collecting thoughts and phrases of the worst judge that like a parasite clogs her mind of all that is righteous and good. Her laugh will fade like paint for it is not real; it too holds an echo of somber memories and lies that shadow cries. Her cries are pitiful, pathetic—how could they mean anything? How can she be unique?
She knows and she understands that.
No, she isn't unique, and she knows that.
You know that.
Why do you believe that you know that?
Because you asked yourself,
And she confirmed.
