Cozied tea kettle.
Slips on shabby cushions.
Sunglasses over shade red eyes.
Anything to cover the worn, the used, the lack of substance. 

The voices say she is not enough and she is too much.

Muffle their murmers with scripture and self help, mascara and moonshine. 
So many layers she doesn’t kmow who she is anymore.

She hides from the mirror, bats her eyes,
and pours her courage over ice.