Her back to the door, she stands,
the wall adjacent whispers sounds of creaking wood.
It smells of peeling white paint— the strips curling like wrinkled fingers,
beckoning her to the stained mirror again.
The dark oak beneath the wall's pearly surface is old and rotting.
She contorts, turning her body at every angle,
pinching and prodding at flaws sculpted as youth drifts from sight.
One glimpse, please, of something— to feel human and fresh,
youthful once more.
In these reflections, a statue built in years lost to the world.
A piece that used to wait for vistors,
who dragged gentle fingers along smooth marble,
that now pay no mind to stone skin of a bygone era.