She sits before a mirror with a face she cannot see
Feeling hollows in her skull where a pair of eyes should be.
And traces slowly downwards on the bony outer ridge
Of a gaping central vacancy where there ought to be a bridge.
And lower still she searches with her hopeful fingertips
About the pearly cavity for perfect crimson lips.
She wanted to be beautiful, a palette for her guise
The face she wore beneath it none but her could recognize.
And so she painted color on her alabaster bones
For her hollow eyes could not conceive a beauty all her own.