Author: Inkspilled PM
experimental narrative poem. "Am I ugly yet? Is it working?"Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror - Words: 521 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 2 - Published: 01-14-12 - Status: Complete - id: 2988597
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Please let me know what you think as you go. It's mildly experimental, most mental. I can never get the format to work properly..
January 15, 2011
With shaking anticipation,
she injected the needle liquid
into her smooth, glowing complexion
saying, "Am I ugly yet?
Is it working?"
Like an expectant child
On Christmas morning.
Like an excited dog,
having found a new owner.
But the glow in her eyes was more
than excitement, or adoration.
It was delirium, masked with
an agonizing need to be
less than what she was.
She sat in the sun, sometimes
wasting away to a lined crisp,
thinking the more dotted marks
the better to mottle her skin with.
The better the chance of melanoma
to greet the beautiful, sunny weather with.
(What better way to thank the sun
than to let it know it was working?)
And on weekend nights she would
sip absinthe by the mug-full,
like it was hot-chocolate in winter.
Sometimes she'd pitch mixtures of
tequila and rum, vodka concoctions
that she always thought would taste
She hoped that her liver was feeling
as honest as she felt. And that her
curdling, suffering organs would
be able to catch up one day, to her
state of mental decay.
But on weekday mornings,
she groped for her coffee,
black and saturated ninety-nine
with sugar. Swallowing down six
cups a day she checked her fading
visage with shaking hands, jittery
as they grasped the small vanity mirror.
She would smile if her
lips were pale and her eyes
soaked through with ink,
bleeding beneath a puffy
And her skin potholed in abstract
organization, where the sparse hairs
matched the number of marks marred.
Until one day, she thought that
her drooping, bruise-coloured
under-eyes would not melt any
darker or sink any lower, she, in
lined consternation, left the office
in impatient hurry, and met the
office of blank white walls,
dull, old notices and seats fulls of
perpetual, apathetic, wait-ers.
They hardly looked at her pale,
jaundiced skin or her bony thin hands,
they only noticed that she would be here
for the same reason as they were.
But instead she sat down,
and as their heads lolled in dulled,
mental exhaustion, they only wished
their quick cures and medicated
prescriptions would come
just a little
And she watched on in rapt attention
reading over every notice and every old
magazine at least thirty-six times,
and when the moment came, she stood
calmly, as others glanced in faint attention.
As she sat in the large black chair,
leaning backwards just a little, she
hoped this would be her last time,
but did not realize
it was only her first.
And so with shaking anticipation,
she injected the needle liquid
into her dulled, grey complexion,
saying "Am I perfect yet?
I know it's working."
A/N: So, I'd wanted this to mean a number of things. One regarding health, the other just to pose a completely contradictory situation. I scared myself a little, writing this. Appreciate Feedback.