Shattered mirrors are the best vanities for the self-shamed.
At least missing shards of glass erase some of the fingers printed into her honeyed skin from those broad-shouldered silhouettes who left permanent marks of temporary pleasures.
Distorted mirrors could never expose the obvious woes embedded beyond what her empty eyes and barely-there clothes show.
This is why - each Sunday - she prowls forbidden boulevards to gather all the smashed mirrors the wives threw to the nearest curb. During late confessional mornings when the "good girls" worship and speak prayers over pews.
Crying out repents innocent enough to have their sins forgiven and a few of hers, too.