An empty shell of a woman. All that resides within her fragile frame is decayed. It hosts a famine and, most likely, worms.
Some days I look upon you with familiar respect, the one I had for you when I was too young to question biology or blood, and where the comfort of your soft skin, the sweetness of your scent (derived from the floral-scented powder you used) were promises of your protection.
Of me. From the world and its hurts.
Some days I look at you and I wish you looked taller. You used to be taller in my memories. And to me, that made you better.
Other days, I look upon you with pity. My heart breaks at the thought of your misery. And all I'd want is for you to be happy. Even if that means turning back time, and you deciding not to marry that man. Even if that means me not existing. Some days, I'd wish for you to be a teenager again, and that you'd have more time.
To make other mistakes, mistakes that wouldn't bring you back here.
I think we'd have been friends if I'd known you in your younger days. After all, we are quite alike. Even though you tell me that I'm prettier than you were at my age. Or that I'm stronger; it's not true. You've just forgotten how beauty and strength feel like. You've been robbed.
And I'm only pretty because you gave me your face. I'm only strong because you gave me my faith on which I've lived my life.
But today, like the majority of all days, I looked upon you with contempt. Because when you stop believing in the beauty that has been entrusted to your keeping, when you relinquish the authority given to you by Christ, to be strong, to be brave, you disappoint me.
At these times, all you are to me is a shell of the woman I used to know and love. And I cannot find it within me to be okay with that.
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