She.

She doesn’t say anything for days. She looks in the mirror but won’t make eye contact with herself. She won’t put on makeup. She won’t dress herself. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t move at all. She doesn’t blink. Or breathe. She melts like hot wax. She burns like wax paper. She’s just as dry too. She doesn’t say anything for days. She only eats gourmet. She passes out pictures of herself. She steals people’s mirrors. She hordes mirrors. She sets them up in her house. She sits there in the center of the room on a pillow. The pillow separates her from the oak wood floors. She prefers walnut. She hovers above the oak wood. She prefers marble. She prefers cake to pie. But she just sits there. With the mirrors. And she doesn’t say anything for days. Just keeps on sitting. The door bell will ring but she doesn’t answer. She just sits there. Her cell phone rings. She lets it die. She lets everything die, plants and goldfish included. She charges the phone. She takes selfies. Lots of selfies. With blue light filter. And automatic facial contouring. She pouts her lips. And tilts her head. But she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t say anything for days. Don’t talk about yourself either. She won’t listen. She doesn’t care. Maybe comment on the mirrors. She likes that. There’s enough of them now that light gets trapped in. She doesn’t go outside anymore. She opens the window a smidge and let’s the light in. She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t wear makeup. She doesn’t dress herself. But somehow she’s never naked. She just sits there. All alone. She’s all alone. She’s all alone. She plays Eleanor Rigby on repeat. She sleeps well past noon. She eats cereal. She reads poorly written romance novels. When no one’s watching she writes poetry. She bears her soul to the wood pulp. Still sitting on her pillow. She throws her poems away. She hates her poems even though they sing. She can’t do anything right, she thinks. She can’t do anything right. She can’t do anything right. When she gets like this, she won’t speak for days. Not to you at least. What have you done for her lately? If you’re lucky and you play your cards right she’ll kiss you on the cheek. You will want her lips. But she is offering cheek. You will accept graciously. You will accept graciously. You will wonder why the author repeats words so much. And she will hear you wondering. But she will not say anything for days. 

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