The person I greet in the mirror isn't me. Sure she looks like me, but her essence is lost. Transfixed on the lipstick, I twist the bullet up, the glistening tip winks at me. It sees my past. My tainted childhood and how I'll never be enough.
My hand smashes the lipstick into the mirror, and I stand without remorse, letting it rain my dreams around me in sharp slithers. The bathroom floor is buried in fragments of broken glass and shattered dreams. Mary's lipstick slips through my fingers and sluggishly bounces across the shards.
And I hear banging at the door.
.
.
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