Thursday 16th December 2010, A. Palmer
The room smelt of straightened hair-
burnt serum, split ends
and all other things false.
The room smelt of her.
Scanning around, I couldn’t help
but notice the lack of direction
and decisiveness in the decor:
she was at a loss as to who she was, the room admitted.
Earnestly, she studied the mirror.
Her hairspray curtain parting revealed the ugly truth.
The perfume bottle paused in midair as
the thought took hold.
I saw it before it happened,
but I was stood too far away for intervention.
She sucked her top lip as she always does,
and began to weep.