"You have a lot of nerve to be unhappy,"
he says, as i stare at a jar of
Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion
that sits on my dressing table
and wonder, do I?
And is it?
"Do you know how many women would love
to live your life?,"
He asks, as I think
Maybe I should try the
Turnaround Creme or the
Deep Cleansing Emergency Mask.
He delivers a soliloquy on
how lucky I am and
I hear him but it must be a foreign language, he speaks,
and I can't make sense
of a
word.
When I look in the mirror, I realize
that the lines of this play are not mine
and I can't find my voice, and the words
can no more be erased than the lines on my face and
I wonder
if they make a disappearing cream.
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