By Moleboheng Mahasa
Pain has etched a love letter across her forehead. Those who encounter her need not even ask. It is written in her eyes and in the way she musters up a smile to cover it all. You can see it on the stubborn setting of her jaw. It is plain to see, pain has held her hostage.
Her laugh is hollow, her talk is shallow. She is the life of the party. You and I know it's a pity party. You and I know that it's the I-wanna-escape-my-life kinda party. She swings her hips across the room. Her victim is beguiled by her beauty. Under her spell he tumbles. It's in the way her lashes flutter fleetingly on her cheeks, portraying the shy-girl look. Pain controls her every move.
Torrents of words come rushing out of her mouth. She out-talks anyone who dares to draw her into conversation. She has them thinking she is the sanguine type. You and I can see that her words are but a vanguard against questions that may cut to her core. No one must know, she is a prisoner of pain.
We stand at the graveyard and watch as the coffin disappears into the earth. This is her final resting place. She committed suicide. A life without hope is not a life worth living. You and I saw it coming. Why do we wait until it's too late?
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