She was never quite what she appeared to be.
Straight-forward she seemed
but it was only skin-deep, for her mysteries most often lied beneath her
simple speech. She had her wits sharpened. She had her eyes opened.
She was much more beyond than what she looked from her exteriors.
She was not just some cutout. Otherwise you would be fetishising her. Objectifying her.
Everything that happened to her only happened in her imagination because contrary to her personal belief it was not all about her.
None could cure her deep-down, black, bottom-of-the-well, no-hope, end-of-the-world, what’s-the-use loneliness.
Fortunately, she was she.