a face pumped and full to the brim, on the verge of spilling over (swollen eyes, pale face, dizzying headache)

~started with innocent purple eye-shadow, sticky lip-gloss, cheeks positively glowing with blush {how differently she looks now}
a pair of ironically shaven cheekbones filed to a point, their only purpose to knife into hearts (puffy lids, aching nose)

~now her necessities are professional gel eyeliner, cc cream, dark red lipstick {balm first, then the stick}
face lifting off, forehead stretching and growing into the hairline (lips parched, mouth bitter)

~surgical knives, the snapping of white plastic gloves {was it always hard to look this young?}
she will not succumb to time, it will not hold her back (the room swirls around like a decaf caramel drizzled vanilla latte)

~the squeaking of the metal table, plastic trays rattling
no matter how hard she tries [cries?], she can only see a withering husk in the mirror ("we're going to put you under now.")

~mechanical beeping of some sorts {she can't quite tell}
could it be that while the outside withers, the inside grows [glows?] brighter? (the anesthesia washes over her, an old friend)

~pure white.

[and she tries to remember a time when there weren't monsters in the mirror.]