The night before She stands inside The bulging, burgeoning Closet. What will I be tomorrow? Pink and pearls? Grey and gold? Will she dress To impress or To cover? There is always so Much To cover. Morning rises. Shower not bath Never bath To sit so still so long In water so hot With time, Well, No. Oh, no. Just No. Not when there is The Mirror To be faced The Mirror Whose price inflates Whose toll increases With every passing year. To lift the droop Suspend the sag To fill the sallow hollows That darken and deepen With every lie To plump the lips Worn out Worn thin By each apology never made By every promise forgotten To span the crevasse The ever-widening crevasse Between who she Is And who she Claims To be. There is no pink Light enough There is no ink Dark enough To fill the expanse Of that limitless Void. Still she tries. Each morning she tries. Spackling the wrinkles With new and heavier Layers Of hypocrisy, Watching it settle Into the lines Like fine French arsenic Feeding flesh to bone. "You still got it, Sister!" She winks at the glass that withers Beneath her gaze. Then gathering the blackened bits Of her soul into a green velvet bag, She slithers behind the latest Luxury wheel, turning the key, Shaking her head, "Late again". Knowing He Waits Obvious and open Atop her slick office desk Flayed and splayed, Calling Unheeded Unheard Forsaken.