She stares into the mirror, glancing past the smudges, the toothpaste, the stains, the mascara strokes, the dust on its surface. Stares through to her own face that she feels with both hands, thinking that it couldn't be hers. She peels her right hand away, some fine dust consisting of her color comes away with it. She touches her eyes, the pride and prize of her daddy, her green brown eyes. Just skin on the lids, but not. Layers of cream purple and tan and white come along with it. She looks up at her exaggerated Shi Tzu lashes, like spider legs out her eyes. Places a feeble hand over them. Just natural hair, just eyelashes. But instead coatings of thick black goop come away with her. With her make up all smudged about her face, she broods on how ugly, how fake, how demonic, even, it makes her look. Sigh of her glowing sister, natural, el naturel, naked and pure as she is, she, who was once better than this real phony, became a phony of her own.

And even this has failed her.

A tiny river, a tiny drop of her frustration slides down her face, that is now all but flesh, picking up rocks and cream and logs and debris as it flows down her face. Is this what she is? A stream of $50 floating debris from the store who's got their lives all together anyway? Is that what she wants to be? But with a streak of sudden, keen burn through her forehead, blush in her ears, she remember what got her here in the first place, is that she's had no choice.