You are pretty.
Your skin is clear– unscarred, unscathed.
Your face is of an angel, your stare is gentle, your smile sparkles.
Those muscles well-toned, your physique is built into perfection, built to defend someone. And you move as though the world revolves around you.
But you are only pretty. You are nothing else.
Your arms should be wrapped around her in passionate embrace, but, no, they are guilty of strangling her lovely neck. Your hands are to touch her face, hold her hands, and the small of her back but you turn them into fists, slap her face, punch her sides, and pummel her until she is a bloody pulp. Your lips, are meant to kiss her gently on the lips but the venom you spit poisons her. Your words are supposed to be sweet caress on her ears but, alas, they hurt like blade stuck into the heart. You are not a man. You are a murderer. Her body is still alive, but her soul is torn apart. Can’t you see, she is barely breathing!
Now tell me with all the honesty you could muster: are you a man?
You are nothing. Nothing but your looks.
To S. — you are a brave woman.