She’s trying to find the room key

In front of the hotel.

She protects her purse like her life is in it.

It’s in that thin metal wallet

With those hundred dollar bills,

But it’s a tell that could get her killed.

Her hazel eyes are dead already.

They have been since 1942,

3 years before she was born.

Her mother was torn 

Between who to marry,

And maybe she chose wrongly, who knows?

But standing in front of her

And behind,

Was her mother, too,

And hers and hers,

Like the fun house mirrors.

You know the kind,

That reflect your own image

Shattered 

A million times over 

And over again,

And a long line of other women

Who’ve stood there, too.

-jenn