by Nick Gisburne
She glances at the mirror in the hall
Instinctively a hand conceals her face
Her vanity means nothing now at all
But sometimes, still, the scars seem out of place
Success could always spoil a perfect day
The flatterers and phonies, laced with lies
But now they quickly turn to look away
As if her imperfections burn their eyes
Returning to a memory, so clear
She curses at the speed, the smash, the spin
The moment that her fame would disappear
Is carved into the canvas of her skin
The scars, a perfect measure of her pride
Remind her of a pain she cannot hide
