One Day

One day, in a
white-faced reflection
there might be creased features or
lines driving in between
a nose that used to be smoother,
lips that were plump,
eyelids taut and high.
Maybe the shock of a scar,
or subdued slash
where freckles once roamed,
blemishes faded,
beauty marks pocking away
to a sagging earlobe:

Once upon a time,
there was a girl who never thought she was beautiful
and she wore shorts with tank tops,
the largest earrings, and
dark eye shadow.
You don't need to curl your eyelashes when your lids are so dark,
you don't need concealer to hide invisible blemishes,
and a nose always fits the face it's on
(really).
She had
the
softest lips,
and boys told her she used them well.
Her beauty was translucent to the
odds of the extrovert,
the appeal of the ageless.

Once upon a girl there
is always time to realize
white faces crumble and
even confidence steeps to ripe,
whatever the age,
and time
can't make
soft
lips
sandy.

One day,
reflections bite the bitter,
regret's blue-eyed beauty,
the girl jealous of the
girl she'll die into.