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You have to respect her drive.

She starts with the front room’s sterling silver beveled framed mirror.
She punches its center letting bloody shards escape to the floor.
She still sees the angry, new, reddening (now cracked and jagged) scar.

She slams the wrought iron framed mini mirror set in the hallway again and again.
She rips the mirror from the medicine cabinet and cracks it on the bathtub ledge.
She breaks a lamp against her bedroom dresser mirror.

Her dark red fists feel no pain.
Her hurt radiates from the top of where her right eye had been across to her left cheek.

She returns to the front room and sits in her overstuffed chair.
She reaches for the cinnamon candy in her crystal dish and stuffs handfuls in her mouth.
As she adds more sweets, her face stretches and the stitches pull and stretch until gaping.

She wipes her bloodied hand smearing her palm’s crimson with her new blush.

Her bared, gritted teeth takes on the frozen mask of a smile.

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