Consumed by the fretfulness of the overwhelming haze, she dug beneath the skin. The fragile penetrable surface of her mortal shell. There, an answer must lie, or a trace to justify this emotional eclipse stirring within. Because she does not know how the frozen feeling began to slither; to reign in such relentless fortitude, nor if she could ever bestow a remedy for these abashed patterns discerned on her body; self-inflicted not so long ago. Behind locked doors, a shy Mona Lisa floated on white marble floor. Petals of red randomly shaded her candlelit room. She opened a window for the radiating orb. The night's ever true companion, impartially observing this impeccable dilemma. Romantic image, one would have thought, if not for the somber intentions intensified with every sigh of breeze havening in her vicinity of void.

The bearer of desperate thoughts. Her breath paused to absorb this dismal realization. Resilient hope fades into these hollow confessions of chasmal detachment, unbinding anger, and a pitiful torrent of self-loathing. One would see it now: muffled chaos amidst tranquil scenes. The echoing sobs of inner turmoil broke the dim silence of the room, an apostate recognition of the double-edged instruments. "They're kept away in a black wooden box, you see." she whispered to me once, "Only unquarantined for mere moments…" Her innocent smile vanished into a transparency of timid distractions "When reality scorns my raw entity, my senses coil as though they have been trapped in a jar. Then, all aspiration would be lost, and nothing can deliver me from this state of paralysis." Mournful resolve gleamed in her eyes: "…But my ethereal instruments". Cold blades were laid out one after the other, like a sequence of piano keys playing to the aching affinity of these desolate occasions. So she closed her eyes and played, dark red seeping down her arm. Mind clear with every fixated graze, yet unfelt tears streamed down the pale face, distraught in wanton need to forget this overshadowing anguish. Numbness, be dissolved. Bring soothing passion to this idle soul again. No, it is not fatal. This act, only a mild laceration, is not aiming for perishing silence. It is a frantic plea to revive this cluster of dying senses, a compulsive vindication to pardon the negligent self, or disregard the transgressions of others. "I cut to forget, but the scars hold on to my memories." Glaring in distress at marks on her body "…Only in time will they be scabbed into oblivion." These self-engraved epitaphs of sorrow and aggravation.

Walking back into the lightened haze, a poised Mona Lisa smiled ever so brightly to an enchanted crowd, speaking welcomes and lingering compliments in her ever tantalizing manner, marinated in praise. In naïve perplexity, conceited eyes looked on the aura of the prima donna, graceful in her velvet gown. "I am a mere silhouette shaped to their credence." She sat among them, passive if not for the artful smile forged on her face, to perfect the image of content peace of mind. Only her pensive gaze would tell she did not like to be in this crowded place, or hear the music filling its every corner, gently swaying the illuminating chandeliers above. The echoing laughter they would release only confirmed the vows of her isolation. "I veil my sickness because I don't think they will understand why I cut myself, why within this act, I would find my dejected solace. I wish they would know how smothering my life has been, then maybe they wouldn't taunt my dreadful failure." Now she sighed, missing the petal covered marble, the enveloping smell of her scented candles, and the gentle wind that brushed her face when looking outside her window. In total detachment, she would greet the comforting silence. But now she has to smile, the docile Mona Lisa. The pseudo Mona Lisa.