Mirror, Mirror

Making remarks; those she will make when you are sitting in front of her.

Gestures, little hesitations to confide in you secret answers to all your questions. 

To respond correctly, properly, with a charm to charm you.

The mirror seems to like her. She kind of winks at it awkwardly but it's quite appealing. 

She flirts with a face so tender, mischievous but innocent. A face that only you pull out from her.

The best of her.

This is what you will give her.

The best of her.

The blush is on, and though it will come naturally, she plasters her face with a little touch.

The lips moist, though it's you who's expected to keep them temperate.

And she stares. A reflection of what you will see.

A reflection of the best she's ever looked, for in your propitious eyes you give her praise.

A tiny doll.

Dragged from under the sheets. 

Hidden from the world of others but not yours.

Yours is what she'll be.

You've become owner.

She's giving you permission.

"Attack" she yells, but the mirror doesn't answer.

"Attack, attack, attack, attack."

The silence is long and disturbing.

Impatience.

Resignation.

And suddenly, abruptly and unfortunately, her grace is gone.

And with that, so are you.