she could hear the ticking of the clock
for the end of her time.
she used to be mine.
where the razor lay dormant for a possible tomorrow
if only for a short moment
she could see herself long enough
to have a tomorrow
she’ll carve herself,
everyone’s satisfied with the image of her
they’ve made for themselves,
even if they’d loved her
she still wouldn’t recognize the dull image,
without her imperfections.
what used to be mine,
whose is it now?