She uses a dark chocolate flavored pencil to make youth of her aged, autumn almond eyes. She cotton swabs delicious creamy pink powered veil on her tired heavy lids. She opens a bottle of mascara and strokes the brush in and out. With trembling hands she weaves spider legs on her balding lashes. She draws herself a set of lips and then glides on a strawberry rhubarb gloss stick, a sweet tasty treat. She shades her pale porcelain cheeks, though she needs not to. Natural beauty is the way it is suppose to be.
She hides behind a painted mask, a masterpiece of insecurity. She questions but denies her incurable disease. Her inhuman thoughts of her reflection are an endless sight of pain; the curse of ripe age consumes her in every way.