She’d rather murder the inner life of others she deemed

Inferior and weak. Whoever dedicated themselves to her, perished.

She’d never put herself into the skin of other women, uncomfortable

In her own. Trying to escape. She’d put diseased smiles on people’s faces.

You lost yourself in this dynamic you’ve shared with her for years.

And you realise that she stopped your growth and that you have no idea who you are.

 

She stole your identity, infiltrated her own body with it and there

It suffocated, she never learned how to nurture something with a heartbeat.

She rids you of everything that matters to you, isolates you, nourishes your fears.

She became so numb, her body harms automatically. The thing she can’t stand

Is her own solitude. That’s why she seeks you out. She requires caretakers who think

That they’ve made a friend and uses their kindness against them.

800px-berthe_morisot_-_woman_at_her_toilette_-_1924.127_-_art_institute_of_chicago

“Woman at her toilette” by Berthe Morisot (1841-1895)

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