In this humble room

is a mirror that surely must produce doom.

For when at the lovely age of eight I saw my face

finer than any silk or lace.

But at the age of nine

I noticed a decline.

I say! My mind was sound

but my looks did confound.

I decreed it my crusade!

Ugliness I would forever evade.

Never was it an obsession,

my actions were always in my possession.

As I progressed through my battle

Oh! did my nerves rattle.

My eyes turned to beveled glass—

reflecting the dents from a sub-par past.

For years I devoutly studied my reflection.

Adding pastes here and there to be more like a confection.

To my lips I would add a glossy, rose shine.

I swore that no lips would be more voluptuous than mine.

I made a pilgrimage after every meal,

and at the holy glass alter I would kneel.

The cracks, I witnessed, had begun to form,

so a red mask was always worn.

Slathered and lathered, so liquid and red!

It stained everything! Even my bed!

A million gold tubes all scattered on the floor!

Just add one and I won't take it anymore!

The red runs from my mouth like Mosses' Nile—

dripping down my chin, dripping to the black and white tile.

It dribbles at an ever quickening pace,

ruining even the finest silk and lace.