adjusting this, fussing over that:
a vain display of affection for herself,
an obsession with material wealth.
One day the mirror cracked;
life shattered in a tragic moment,
reflections distorted in the pieces.
Misery swept over her doll-like physique.
Taking the shards, she made a decision,
one slice here, a cut there
readjusting and fussing again,
all over the red-stained carpet.
Leaving behind a new image,
coarse and redefined,
changed by her non-ending sadness,
in her death she found her happiness.
With the mirror broken,
nothing did she need.
Society was the mirror;
she was the image it expected.