I have muscles,

but I have scars.

Pin pricks tracing the lines of my face.

Dead skin cells,

Multiplying,

and dividing…

though they remain in utter lifelessness.

Mitosis

on the oily tips of my fingers.

Acne

that follows that path

of imperfection.

Beautiful,

deadly imperfection.

Don’t grieve for my face –

glowing an ugly shade of autumn.

Tarnished ivory keys

in the cavernous, rank,

mouth of a braggart.