Portrait Of A Girl

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A picture of a girl so lost in her own life that she longs to be apart of someone else's. Held back by time and distance between those around her that she struggles like a beast in a cage to get away.

This girl isn't evil, nor is she insane. But she's tormented by loneliness and her own invisibility that she no longer feels human.

She's a maid.

She's only there to pick up after her so-called friends; someone who silently and (begrudgingly) obediently keeps the peace. She takes care of the animals, makes sure the plants are watered and cleans up the house because no one else wants to.

She's angry.

She feels used and then abandoned. Treated little more than a robotic vacuum cleaner, she makes sure everything remains in order — although her friends' desires seem to only be placed on destruction of said order.

She can't fight back.

Plagued by years of guilt and regret she sees herself as worth little more than the household Cinderella. She wants to speak up but every time she does, it serves only to complain and be met with false promises of change.

She's ignored.

She struggles against the bars wishing only to be freed. She dreams of another life — another time — where everything would be made beautiful again.

She lives in a world of black and white. The only color that responds is the color of sepia and it only comes in tones. She can't see the brightness of the sun or the glory behind the stars. She sees only sepia and black.

She dreams of death.

She treads the motorways half hoping she'll be hit by a speeding driver who is more interested in their iPod playlist than the life of a fellow creature. Those thoughts of death and pseudo-suicide used to frighten her. Now they're just part of the mundane.

She feels remorse about everything.

Choked by decades of procrastination, disappointment and missed chances, she can't look beyond them. Her eyes are glues more to the past than the present.

She calls out for help but doubts anyone will listen. She cries herself to sleep at night, tormented by the knowledge that no one notices she's missing. All her friends have moved on without her and she's left behind in the dust, fixated in a certain period in time, left all alone to suffer her cruel defeat.

She is comforted by nothing. Her friends have long since given up trying to deal with her irrationalities. They don't have the patience for her any longer, and neither does she.

She is paranoid.

She used to read papers and texts on paranoid schizophrenia and, since junior high, has been worried about being diagnosed with that ailment. When strangers look her way, she gets defensive. When friends offer a simple greeting, she responds with annoyance. She fears everyone around her; especially those she doesn't know. She distrusts affection and throws away intimacy.

She has already died.

Her body is still active in the minimalist of ways but her soul is vanquished. She sits through every day, numb to the events around her. She lays, asphyxiated, on the floor of her rented room as her medically existing body strides through life, vacant.

She needs an escape but there is none. She's trapped in her own personal hell of mistrust and misery. She avoids contact, avoids lingering eyes, avoids social conventions in the fear that she might be found out.

She no longer exists.

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