i.
One line descending diagonally,
three hidden between, unsubtle
pleasure reflected in roundness.
ii.
That face was mine, round-mouthed
and messy. Nothing a few hairpins
can't fix, no honesty unobscured.
iii.
Even vanity has its secrets,
display used for distraction,
this veil of ink an admission.
iv.
Yet am I seen? Is it enough to look
into the darkness and see something
so very nearly myself looking back?
v.
We aren't always so adversarial,
but she carries her past visibly
long after I let my history go.
vi.
I do not need to know her thoughts.
I see her story, ours, writ in bone
& skin, in scars I can never remove.
vii.
What wealth is left here to worship?
What worth can be wrung from answers
to questions nobody's asking anymore.
viii.
I'll make a box of this mirror,
a coffin, no gilding or lilies,
just a corpse I'll never escape.