She was a beautiful woman.
A bright mesmerizing color.
But soon, the sun stopped shining on her.
She was a beautiful woman with a beautiful soul, but no one was there to tell her so.
Her own eyes deceived her by showing the reflection of a monster upon the mirror.
The more she tried her best to become beautiful, the uglier her reflection got.
How couldn't she see, what a beautiful creation she was?
How could she succumb to the words uttered by mere strangers?
Her eyes watered with tears, her head hung in shame, her fingers trembled in fear. She was a mess; a beautiful one
The one that sends shivers down your spine only if you understand it's intricate complexities.
Only if you took time observing every bit of it's detail.
She was a masterpiece.
But only for an artist who was patient, passionate and brave enough to delve deep into it's depth.
She was a beautiful woman but it wasn't her fault for the scars indented all over her wrists and arms.
She was a beautiful woman but it wasn't her fault that no one else saw it.
She was a beautiful woman, but she was sad and melancholic. She was tired.
Her fights against the voices inside and outside her head reaped no fruit.
Her color slowly fading away.
Her voice, slowly falling away.
She was a beautiful woman but she was slowly and steadily withering away, like a dried autumn leaf, slowly accepting defeat.
She wanted to relieve the world of herself and relieve herself of the world.
Her wrists bled. Her heartbeat slowed. Her color faded.
Her eyelids failing to stay open, kept dropping down.
And in her last moment of being, she got a glimpse of the sun rising; filling the world with colors.
She was a beautiful woman, but it wasn't her fault that she had succumbed to the darkness she once feared.
A beautiful woman indeed.
Only if someone could have told her how beautiful she was.