Little glass bottles line the shelves– different shapes, different sizes;
all empty, the catch the light as she removes them,
one by one,
from their narrow, mirrored home.

They are little prisms;
rainbows dance cheerfully on the white tiles of the bathroom walls.
These charismatic little bottles hold her beauty, though
these days, they die so quickly…

But even when they have nothing within left to offer within,
they use their bodies to please her;
they strive to bring their mistress tiny swatches of color
to a life that has been bleakly bleached.

Another little bottle is birthed from the womb
of another glossy, black cardboard box.
Its blood runs beige over her fingers,
marring the thin golden band on the fourth.

She needs just a touch more of its essence today;
as she reaches, a dead friend shifts on the counter surface,
refracting a beam of light into a burst of hues,
painting directly over the memory of last night.

With careful strokes of her fingers,
the infant helps erase that evening slowly.