I'm late, so I pull off my eyelashes.

Adopting the stolen legs of a glittering insect,

tasked to keep pace with human vanity.

Molten gold welling in the corner of an eye,

daring to pretend tears, though nowadays

weeping metal seems almost fashionable.

The skin, that weathered canvas,

mouthless yet indignant of every cruelty.

Every contour and scar is known to me,

speaking of more than I care to recall.

Spiteful, I evict their noiseless protest.

Am I ready yet? What more to change,

except perhaps the hollowness of this

thankless task.

By morning, light will mock my efforts,

fitting into a cast shaped by greed.

Remorsefully I shall go about the day,

contrite in face of disapproving reality, yet

strangely wistful of my brief sojourn

into the poison realm of glamour.