Lipstick by Diana Raab

I spun my red convertible sports car
on your dead-end street
to return to my house to get my red lipstick,
because without it, I feel naked, but am I?

While rummaging 
through my vanity drawer,
my face caught the mirror:
a different me—
wrinkled face and lines
where my rosy lips used to be.

This pattern continues
for the rest of my life—
the imagining of me as someone else—
sometimes my mirror
shows my duplicate: her eyes
are not as green, her hair not as black.
I stand up with lipstick in right hand,
saunter down the driveway back to my car
and the mirror again shows me someone else,
and you didn’t wait—and left.

Who am I really?

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