It has recently come to my attention,
That if I were a character in a Jane Austen novel,
I would be described as sickly,
With a weak constitution.
Shown little pity when the man
I thought would look after me,
Drops me for a woman more energetic,
More beautiful,
More interesting than myself.
He\'ll pick the girl who treks
Through the countryside,
Who doesn’t mind to dirty her clothes
Or redden her cheeks with exercise.
He would choose the woman
Who speaks her mind,
Not bothering to cover up her feelings
With social dignities.
He would take the lady who spoke
Rudely and honestly towards him,
Rather than politely and with respect.
Because that sort of woman has character,
A real character that draws people in,
Makes people love her
And yearn to earn her approval.
I on the other hand, am weak,
Not by my own decision,
But by the hand life dealt me.
By the illnesses that
Have piled up and up
Until I can never be considered
Healthy ever again.
I have been snubbed by life,
By people I thought were friends,
Or even something more.
By the people who were supposed
To look after me,
Who,
Despite their best efforts,
Always get bored and annoyed eventually.
Yes if I were a character
In a Jane Austen novel,
I would not be the heroine,
Or the heroines beloved sister,
Or even a friend of hers.
I would be a faceless, featureless extra,
Simply there to flesh out the story
And used as a contrast for
The splendid beauty of
All the other women out there.