Lovely
*
She gazes at, no, dissects, her reflection. Limp hair. Cracked lips. Jutting cheekbones. Sickly, ashen skin. Bruised shadows beneath lifeless eyes.
She notes them, catalogues them.
Looks away, trembling.
Remembers the burning in her throat, bile that threatens to spill forward, but it's only an echo, a silent accusation.
She decides that she's never looked more beautiful.
"Lovely," she breathes.
(But the light is fluorescent, clinical; it sees through her, and it's blinding.)
*
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