midnight cowgirl

positioned between two mirrors,
she observes a warped vision;
there's two of her,
twelve fingers and three noses.

she rocks back on hardened heels;
shorn with contact, cracked and fraught
in contrast to the sheet -
which is virginal, in non-judgement.

she strokes it's cotton-skin 
long before the lines creep in,
but bloodstains still flower,
spreading sordid tye-dye across the bed.

faint grey lines emerge and
she picks up a rubber,
but the lines remain,
persistant grass stains or period knickers.

her voice withers with
explanation as the mirror
beckons; she is resting-less
for the lack of the lotus.

i suppose it's a question
of freedoms exchanged,
peeling the onion, layer after layer,
crying out freeing fears
but weary woe betide her;

for i wonder what we will find
when she is all gone?