Lying is an addiction

The woman laying down on earth thinking the same, inhaling dust like oxygen, earth is sandpaper for her skin. Her skirt is torn, just a piece of cloth left for her to save her modesty in front of the whole village, hair open and wild, eyes deep and speculative, wandering around in the sea of people, finding so many familiar faces but not one welcoming.

Several pairs of eyes are on her, some are looking with sympathy, some with lust and some with disgust. But not from apathy, only things she wants from the world, but is not allowed to get.

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This was intended to be entry for a short story competition. But due to my habit of procrastination, I have missed deadline.