I see you. I see you, beautiful sad girl. I see you sit in front of a mirror for hours each day, pretending that your perfect hair grows in perfect ringlets. I see the sadness in your eyes each time you think on the lie you live. It was never your lot to be seen as intelligent. You, with your breathtaking beauty and your fantastic skin and your shiny blonde ringlets, the ones that are supposed to grow naturally, you were meant to be an image. A portrait of Youth, never a studious young woman. Youth, how delicate. Youth, how splendid. Youth, how indescribably unhappy with her own impeccable life. Sometimes I can hear you cry. You never cry on the outside, but deep in a scrap of your flawless soul, you scream. Your throat is hoarse from the giggling and childish gossip. Your mind is dusty from eighteen years of neglect. You pick up a book and immediately throw it back down. And when you sit in front of your mirror, when you are so absorbed in your own face that you cannot see me behind you, I see you die.