The Mirror's martyr.

Today,
she spends roughly twelve-and-a-half minutes in front of the Mirror,
a typical morning.

She tries on three or four outfits,
each discarded in turn,
having failed
inspection,
to land in a pile in the bathtub,
a pile from which one sorry winner
is eventually retrieved,
accompanied by a sigh of concession.

She has admitted defeat.
Today, her clothes will not be perfect.

Another five or so minutes she spends
veiling her skin
with paints and pigments,
hiding each tiny flaw,
trying
in hopeless concentration
to emphasize those features she wishes
were larger,
more seductive,
more intriguing –

But long curling lashes, it seems, are in nature reserved for boys.
It isn’t fair.

Still, with reddened cheeks and heavy eyes,
having wielded a pair
of potentially lethal curling tongs
in a hurried attempt
to exercise some fleeting control over her hair –
she rushes out the door.

She is late to choir again –

She is late.

What else in life has she arrived late for,
misssed out on,
all because of these
“necessary”
moments spent in pas de deux
with the Mirror,
split-second glances that turn into minutes,
becoming hours –

glances that sacrifice time
that sacrifice love,
even, in this martyrdom
for Beauty?

And to what avail is it,
when at the end of the day,
her careful mask has faded,
smudged -
and she looks tired,
not immaculate, composed
not glowing –
to what avail can it be?

All this she wonders,
but cannot answer,

still.

So more precious hours she will
despense
in contemplation
towards thinner waist
and brighter smile
and sweeter expression,
all this to mask
the pain
of
knowing

that she is neither pure
nor
perfect.

-Siri Hammond