she's all lipstick glossy pink hues and eyeliner on lids pressed darkly on a slant in the midnight hour. Lips affirming the sweet taste an exhausting abuse of malignant power. she's all hips mesmerizing mystique of an melting goddess oozing liquidity and familiarity feminine wiles and the very definition of what it is to be a beauty, nevertheless. she's all fingertips and Bobbi Brown mixed with the zest of Mac red colors raging mad against the moon shaped crescents of where originality lies and the smack of the lips- she's all stuffed and fluffed nipples high and gracing the Heavenly skies spilling out of Victoria's, entering Fredrick's and amassing on silken sheets unfamiliar in its territory where she's kissed. she's all of this and all of that perfume laced with toxic pheromones reeking of danger zones enter here and exit there to the south of the navel to the barren wastelands of innocence she's all design...

people look in the mirror all the time. pluck this little hair, smooth that little wrinkle with a finger curse the mole on their shoulder bless the plumpness of lips. imperfections. Tiny little lines formed from laughing or crying larger than life pores bursting from sweat embedded from the brow after a long days work. little nuances that prove that we are alive yet die with the cells that provide us. and we're human. human like a life grown in the womb, wet and wrinkly encased in globs of fat around bone to protect life amniotic fluid and stem cells fluidity as the river of unions gave birth to what a child should be. and somehow, some way between that beautiful birth and our end of cellular growth we are inept. ugly. imperfect. we look in a mirror. we gaze at little things that become lots of things which focus on larger issues of why beauty is not a cliche skin deep but a humongous and perpetual diminished fight against the youthfulness...