I look into the face of the woman staring at me.
She is me.
I see dark bags under her eyes.
Blacks and blues, purples mixed with pinks.
I study her wrinkles.
The deep creases in her face seem to show all her past hardships.
I observe her pale, pale pink lips.
They are not any rosier than the pallid roses you give to a mother with a newborn baby girl.
In her lips, you can slightly see the bright scarlet hue of her adolescence.
They used to call her “Poppy” because of her naturally crimson lips.
I notice her tissue-paper skin that she tried so hard to keep firm.
Her skin is defeat.
It hangs unbound from her high cheekbones.
But then, I behold her eyes.
The same eyes that once made men fall to their knees, begging for mercy.
They are blue-green, like a Tiffany box.
Her eyes still sparkle with youthful energy.
In those turquoise orbs, you can see her entire life.
She is beautiful.
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