I am not like her. She has no
ambition. She feels defeated, deflated and tired. She looks at the mirror and
wonders where her best years went. Sleeps only so she can stop thinking of the
what-ifs. I am not like her, a shell of a woman with no will to live. With
darkness in her heart and no one to turn to when she feels vulnerable. I am not
like her, she is less than perfect, with so many flaws that people look at her
and make snap judgements about her whole being. She comes across as harsh,
angry at the world and herself for letting people get to her. She stands
defeated, nursing her wounds in the privacy of her bedroom. No one sees her
tears, only the walls she puts up between herself and other people. She is
beautiful in a wildly untameable way. I am not like her, only I am.
