She stared at herself, the cold glass of the mirror,
And wondered when all these transformations
Happened and how she could have missed them.
She wore the skin of a child, in need of shelter,
Desiring warmth and fearing abandonment. The
Alterations would never end and she felt that she was too far behind.
They had tarnished her skin.
Sprinkled it with dry kisses.
She wiped them all off.
The sensation, the memory, remained,
Intoxicating. And she divorced her heart
From her own texture to defeat the ghosts.
“Portrait of a woman” by George Lawrence Bulleid (1858-1933)