I spun my red convertible sports caron your dead-end streetto 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 lineswhere my rosy lips used to be. This pattern continuesfor the rest of my life—the imagining of me as someone else—sometimes my mirrorshows my duplicate: … Continue reading Lipstick by Diana Raab