Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Trigger-happy.

And she sits in front of the mirror every day at 6PM, just as the sun is about to set and her husband is about to come home, and she sees the caricature the mirror throws back at her. The lips just about to crack into a smile, the eyes just about to spill their secrets, the fingers just about the texture of silk.
Just about, but never quite. Never there. Never complete.
And the rouge cracks in its little black box, and the perfume evaporates in its pretty little bottle, and the lipstick dries in its little gold case. The dressing table grows old with age, the termites bite through the wood. The mirror gets dusty and distorts her face everyday.
Old age, and cracked bones. A dead colony, and dusty shelves.
And even if she cleans it all up, sweeps it aside with one hand in a drunken rage, it does nothing to hide her scars and wrinkles. The rage does not take away with it her dirty secrets and ugly lies. The broken boxes and bottles and cases all taped together do little to help her glue back her crushed spirit.
Battered and bruised and broken. Dark and dingy and depressed.
Yet, she has lived her life. She has lived a life. She's had the sunshine and the rainbows, the hurricanes and the showers. The ups and the downs, the good and the bad. Brunches and weddings, smiles and tears. Children and grandchildren, friends and foes. Fireplaces and crystal mantelpieces, skintight dresses and knitted Christmas sweaters.
So she'll make do with her cracked makeup and cracked mirror and cracked life. She'll wipe away non-existent tears, and give her non-existent smile.
Perfectly flawed.

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