God fucking damnit. Mia pulled the false lashes off for the second time. Glue made fine stringy lines before snapping and sticking to her eyelid, mixing with mascara. She was not off to a good start. Still, at least she wasn’t in a rush. There was exactly one hour before the shoot and an Uber to pick her drinking ass up. She had danced this tango before and knew it was a swirling dervish of long and immense suffering. Mia’s fingers picked at her eyelid and came away with what looked like gray boogers. She wiped them on her sweatpants and thought, Gross. This shit was ridiculous. But when she could blink and cause a hurricane, it would all be worth it.
When I was very young, I made her.
Or should I say, I met her?
She was woven from the threads
of my imagination,
stars pinned in wild, dark hair,
gold dust on her feet.