by Andrea M. Newton

Wrinkles crawl across her face,
spotlighted by short, skullcap hair
while cheap blue eye shadow
buries her eyes
and Revlon Red
leaks off her lips.
Chantilly Lace perfume,
a cloud around her,
turns my stomach.
She has my face,
and it scares me to see her sit,
silent in her chair
like an antique clock
whose hands have rusted still.
Shoved in the corner of a musty attic,
unwanted but unforgotten.
Dust settles upon her,
pendulum that counted seconds
now idle as time slips away.