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The Mannequin

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Speaking of a woman I once considered a friend:

I can find no single way to describe this woman. She doesn’t know who she is so she strives to be someone else. The only real friend she has is the torn and confused woman staring back at her in the mirror.

She’s given everything up, for what? For who?

Turned her back on her family and her heritage. For money? For popularity?

She uses people for what they have to give and if you’re giving nothing, consider yourself trashed. Her mind is easily manipulated and her body is a mere toy to be played with. The real person died a long time ago and all that’s left is a vile, regurgitated shell of a woman.

 

Why do I consider her a mannequin? It should seem obvious. 

This woman is completely devoid of life. Hollow and empty, yet appearing to be at complete peace on the outside. You would never guess the poison that lies within her complex walls. 

She is ultimately the product of society and she may have everyone else fooled, but I can see beneath the surface. She’s someone who should be feared more than a Siren.

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