A Portrait Of A Beautiful Woman.

She doesn't wear gaudy costumes, but her skin is a dress men love.
She has a daughter but she's not married, and her daughter doesn't know who her father is. Neither does she.
But she is living–no, surviving–her life. She is an epitome of survival. But you can call her a dead. She is covered with scars like a shroud to the dead. And she's ignited with a fiery lust of the men she's never met. But she's surviving still. Not for her. For her daughter.
Look at her. Look how beautiful she is.

 

She is not allowed to step with her nasty feet in the purlieu of society, so she lives far away from them. Apathy has her heart engulfed but she's not profane. She doesn't ask God any good for her, because she has tried already, but for her daughter who is living still, inside and outside.
She barely smiles. When the countess calls for the day and hands her a little sum, that's when she is forced to smile inside. But she does smile fine one of those moments when her daughter climbs onto her just as she arrives home. She really does.
Look at her. Look how beautiful she is.

 

With all the tingles and scorches, and the same familiar stain on the white sheet where she lays, without saying a word but a fake moan, all she remembers is her daughter. Oh, that sweet angel. While some men drip the saliva of infidelity and wipe them with a hand with ring on it, she reminisces all the reveries she had had about the afterlife. And there she is now. Legs spread, eyes closed, mouth open, taking pain, algid temptation, savorless blow, thrusting buffet. Yes, sometimes she is on the cliff waiting for a soft blow to do the thing, but her daughter catches her hand with her smile glued on her face. And there she weeps, ever so subtly.
Look at her. Look how beautiful she is.