ordinarily, i would declare that a contradictory statement.
the fabulist isn't, at all, what you perceive her to be.
beauty is defined by in and exterior.
but on the inside of the left-lying-alone leach,
scars of scattered, rapidly progressing thoughts swarm.
her walls have the imprints of the dicks that destroyed her.
all that is left and hasn't yet lingered,
is that deceptive blow delivered in the form of a finger.
her decomposition had to be completed by absolute strangers.