Politics Of Grooming

I know the you when you are getting dressed
 Is not the you I've really come to know
 She speaks in shorter phrases
 And she often can't remember
 Which impulsive words were emitted as response
 But it's not a selfish, shorter-spanned attention
 Rather, preference for the politics of grooming
 Hell, I'd paint my face and fingers
 And my toes and lips and eyelids
 If it meant tonight, I didn't have to think about the future
 Just to fixate my attention on a wooden powder pencil
 Not a single thought devoted to whatever's on outside the house
 Or even past the door of your mother's bathroom where we're sitting
 And surviving on the steadiness of passing time
 So when the lines are drawn and all the powders matted
 You'll be standing there and blinking at your image
 And you'll wish that it would turn around
 And do what it's supposed to
 But reflections do not turn themselves away
 ♪
 When you were younger and your mother started drinking
 She would tuck you in and close your bedroom door
 Then, one night, you sprung awake inside a turning, twisted dream
 And you ran downstairs to find her laying out across the floor
 She did not hear you softly crying near
 Or feel your mouth all hot against her ear
 So you kissed her like she taught you
 And for the first time on a head
 You got up and tucked your own self into bed
 So when the lines are drawn and all the powders matted
 You'll be standing there and blinking at your image
 And you'll wish that it would turn around
 And do what it's supposed to
 But reflections do not turn themselves away
 Yeah, you'll wish that you would turn around
 And do what you're supposed to
 But it's easier to blink and stare and stay