Replaced

Tired and teary-eyed,
She looks at herself in the mirror.
Once beautiful , now worn,
Her face tells a story.
The scars and wrinkles,
Like lines of a map, marking her journey.
Rough spots to mark the battles,
The smooth- the times of love.
But mostly rough.
She undresses herself,
Peels off her second skin:
The expensive dress she wore for him,
The stockings she wore as an illusion.
She stares, scrutinizing.
Listing all that she thinks, if only slightly changed,
Would bring back his love.
Her arms too thin, and mutilated,
The self-made scars depicting the story of her youth,
Her stomach, not as flat as it once was,
Still pierced, but now the jewelry hangs limp,
More sad now than sexy,
The small area of her body, a link to her soul,
That she allowed to be used and abused,
In attempts at love, all in vain,
Now limp, loose and untouched for so long.
She all but forgot what if felt like to have him inside of her.
Her legs, once muscular and tanned,
Now cellulite and sun spot covered,
No longer the supermodel pegs that once attracted him to her.
It was all still her though. And he had loved her once,
Hadn't he?
Hadn't he said so? She could barely remember.
But he could never love her now.
This 40-something, overworked and overused body.
A gallery of scars. Memories etched into her skin.
The memories, fading like the scars,
Are all she has now.
So she lay naked onto the cold, white porcelain floor,
That they once made love on in their youth,
And like every other night,
For almost as long as she could remember,
She cried herself to sleep,
And hoped to never wake up.