My character

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.