not a poem but a fun lil writing thing
The cat’s fleas are geriatric after shadowing it for generations. The cat itself isn’t too far from plummeting into misery and monotony, slowly creeping towards the edge of demise. Slowly creeping towards its owner, it begs for a scrap it knows it can’t eat, beseeching for a head pat because it wonders if it is still alive. The cat lets out an extensive caterwaul of cognizance. For the first time, it realizes how myopic it has been. Not once had it wished good fortune to its owner; not once had it let a rat get by; not once had it said, “I love you,” because not even once, it thought about how it might make your day. It always thought the phrase might have a positive connotation, but even so, it didn’t see the point in utilizing it. The cat remains dormant in the minds of strangers (which have probably been overlooked), and as it lies in the evening sun, it cries. However, it cries softly, so it may listen to the tumultuous world it had never noticed before.
Speaking to her reflection through a snarl, Marji mimics her mother.
“Marjane, your teeth are so yellow! Please brush them.”
“Marjane, you’re so skinny! Eat mom’s dinner up so you can gain some weight.”
“Marjane! Your nail’s are too long! Men will think you kill them with those.”
“Marjane, Marjane, Marjane. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you do anything right?”
“You’re so stupid. Always taking Mom’s critisism.”
She pushes back and stares at her beautiful reflection, clenching the sink.
“Are my teeth really that noticable? No, Mom’s just getting to my head. But- if I really look at it…”
She gets so close to the glass that her reciprocal noses touch. Her teeth have more yellow pigment than her overdue bathroom appliences.
“I guess they are. My teeth are kind of crooked, too. That’s okay. At least they’re healthy. It’s probably not noticable from afar, anyways.”
She walks backwards and covers her eyes like a child at a horror film. When she removes her hands, she can still see the jaggedness and tart toilet bowl color of her smile. She darts back to the mirror. What else was she missing? As if she was in an art museum, she leans in and out, again and again.
Part, then whole, and before she noticed it in the whole, everything was okay. Then she’d lean in and see her different sized nostrils and massive pores. She’d lean out and see it again.
“I am a piece of ugly art, but you don’t notice that until you examine the crappy composure. I’m going to ruin my self-image if I keep doing this. I should stop..”
But she didn’t. Ticking off all the problems of her body, she slipped into dismorphia. Asymetrical cheek bones and a jaw thats too soft. Bushy eyebrows and eyes that are slanted at different angles. Ears larger that her fists and hands like a man’s. She could hear the rhythm of her heart. Ba thump. Ba thump. Her pupil size doubled as she gripped the sink, taking heavy breaths that appeared on the mirror. Tear ducts formed as she stared at every imperfection.
“There has to be something I can do. Anything.”
Her eyes darted to the swiss army knife in the medicine cabinet. Ba thump. Ba thump.
“Maybe- Maybe I can rearrange some parts.”
She flipped out the sharpest blade of the tool she knew all too well and held it to her scalp.
“One, two, three!”
The knife glided to her temple and Marji dropped it with a shreik. Warm tears and blood flow down her face and create a sensation she’s never felt. The knife glimmers on the floor with danger, soon in Marji’s hand. Her crimson hairline blinds her but her heart says to act. Wailing, she puts the blade as close to the temple as she can imagine.
“Like scissors on wrapping paper. Okay. Four, five, six!”
Blood flows into her mouth and eyes as she drags sloppy, slattern lines across her cheek. More shreiks and screams flood her ears as a piece of skin flips over and exposes deep red tissue. Yellow bubbles of fat cover what used to be her face. The mirror, the sink, the floor, all forming pools of blood.
Trembling and drowing in tears, the beast that was once Marji continues to drag the blade to her opposite ear and back up to the remaining temple. Caterwauls and the symphony of hell exit the body as it places the knife beside the slab. Salty tears touch the bare muscle tissue and the beast howls.
“Seven, eight,”
The beast slides the knife beneath the wound.
“NINE”
The knife slides under the flesh and tears skin away from the dermis in some places and straight off of the muscle in others. Severing globs of fat when it cut too deep and leaving it on the muscle when just right, the beast looked like patchwork. It had it’s eyes shut the entire time and would jolt suddenly at any instance of pain; insicions were impressive considering the curcumstances.
Finally, the piece of flesh that covered the forehead and eyes fell with a plap and clung to the bloody bathroom tile. The beast’s exposed eyes look in terror at what it’s become. The only remaining skin on the face is around the mouth, with which the beast says, “ten..” and collapses. It lies there as it’s veins empty and the bathroom floods.
Havoc rains outside. The noises alone are enough to push you off the edge of sanity as chatter, caterwauls, and sirens scream an off-key serenade.
The cacophony is paired with candescent lights, red and blue. Mangled and juiced, Jacob Wilson lies beside a bruised baseball bat. The word “sorry” is written slatternly in crimson red on the pale hardwood.
Once smelling of Jacob’s favorite candle, Fall Festival, the house reeks of anguish and smoke. Stronger than the rest, the aroma of iron fills the house. The scent pours from the cells that once coursed Jacob’s veins. Now, it courses the cracks of the hardwood, running from ditch to ditch, flowing in dwarvish rivers. The body, no longer Jacob’s, floats in crimson rivers; drowning in wine only hours before.
Wine. Thin, pale, and cheap. It’s putrid; similar in smell to a bitter citrus. It’s the smell Jacob’s sister never knew. She couldn’t know. Whether her innocence and incognizance saved or imperiled her is yet to be decided. Regardless, her life was censored and silenced. She only knew what he let her, saw what he wanted her to, and was precisely who he raised her to be. Who will she become now, allowed to become someone?
Two hearts on the floor Both are mine, One is yours
You’re super cute, and call me Dahmer, But I can’t bare this lust much longer!
I hope you get hit by a bus So it’ll be the end of us
Please, just leave me alone Further contact is condoned!
I haven’t fallen Out of love, But you’ve fallen Out of line
I would rather eat you alive Then break your heart and make you cry..
I’ll get hurt and push off closure But know that soon it’ll be over!
/)/)
( . .)
( づ🔪
