The Lipstick

There was someone odd staring back at her
From the mirror on her dressing table.
From a height about as tall as her,
The mad one seemed like a lot of trouble.
Wisps of grey hair surrounded her,
Her skin was akin to some old leather.
Her eyes were like the swirling milk,
In a dark, piping hot concoction.

The skin on her arm was loose like rubber,
And she was just muscle twisted on bones.
But the oddest thing perhaps of all,
Was that she copied exactly how she posed.
When she reached out one hand, the other did too,
And when she yanked it away, she followed suit.
She was somewhat familiar, but not quite so,
Perhaps she was just a ghost of lighting that was crude.

There was an imposter in her bedroom, a ghost perhaps.
But there was no one awake in the middle of the night.
She tiptoed closer, and the ghost grew taller,
But she was far from a scaredy cat.
She yelled in anger, the ghost yelled back,
She widened her eyes to scare her away.
But the ghost, it seemed, was a brave one too,
For she stayed put like dust on an old portrait.

The hunchback ghost, she was her arch-rival,
And she decided to finish it off.
She grabbed a stick to punish the witch,
But there was lipstick on the dressing tabletop!
The shade of red matched her spirit of youth,
Bright vermillion made her heart yearn.
So she painted her lips in the shade of brick,
And suddenly the ghost in the mirror was just her.

Sumedha Sengupta is a third-year student of Hindu College, University of Delhi, currently pursuing a Bachelors in Chemistry. She aspires to become a researcher someday and is passionate about understanding neurodegenerative diseases.

Featured image credit: Guilherme Gomes/Pixabay