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My mother was an aristocrat,
at least in her own mind,
she had a certain noble air,
a ramrod for a spine.

She knew her face was beautiful,
exceptional and rare,
and when she walked into a room,
one and all would stare.

She held her mouth a certain way,
with Mona Lisa's guile,
but stiff and somewhat mask-like:
a practised, partial smile.

She knew all eyes were on her,
every moment was a pose,
the world revolved around her
in her pricy designer clothes.

She was the leading lady,
her life was all an act,
the cameras rolled continuously,
so she could not relax.

She was always kind to others,
though we all sensed some unease,
somehow we felt belittled
by her poised nobless oblige.

And at her dressing table,
I'd stand beside her knee,
She'd brag about her beauty
and I dared not disagree.

And, damn it, she made sure this child
would never be a threat,
and all those facial injuries
looked like mere accidents.

I wonder what she planned to do,
when age would take its toll
and gone would be that flawlessness
and she'd finally be old.

When everything you are in life
rests soley on your looks,
and the image in the mirror
shows the toll that time has took...

She could have grown old gracefully,
with age become divine.
her beauty would've transcended
the ravages of time.

Instead, defeat and bitterness,
her pride no longer fed,
she couldn't cope with knowing
that she wasn't turning heads.

So, one last time, she made up her face,
lost in dark insanity,
and blew her brains out with a gun
and all for vanity.

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