You were beautiful; a fragile figure framed in the power of patriarchy, a smiling lady painted with ceruse and mercury, a corseted belle sitting silently in a banquet of lies, with a drop of belladonna hiding the sadness beneath your sparkly eyes.
The wedding day got closer. They said you could be prettier. And so they forced a poison down your throat; a poison of sickly beauty believed to keep your confidence afloat.
But the wedding day never came. Your untimely death was the one to blame.
The most beautiful you was the you that slept forever without pain.