Dysmorphic
It wasn’t enlivening, it was deadening.
I can’t stand the view of my reflection in the mirror, in a picture, behind my eyes. I am nauseous with the sight of this rotting carcass, this hollow point shell, this royal husk. It is a covering - a cover, a layer, a barrier. An annoying, withering wallowing shroud overall.
Take this outer, it is not mine. This hooded coat, this blanket, coating, film, overlay, sheet, cover-lay, sheath, crust, this faux finish. I want a new one, a fresh one, one that doesn’t smell with the stench of a thousand men, a thousand suns, a thousand deaths. One that doesn’t show the signs of use, of misuse, of abuse, of disuse. One that doesn’t give one away without protection, one that doesn’t shout to the world anything I don’t want the world to know.
It wasn’t deadening, it was horrifying.
19 September 2007 at 9:45 pm
I always regard it as highly fortunate that minds provide so much more interesting and engaging and pleasing pictures - reflections - than mere bodies.
It’s even more fortunate in this case, considering the power of the language used. Poetry as prose. Again.
20 September 2007 at 12:49 am
Wouldn’t it wonderful if we could just climb out of these “royal husks”? Shed them like a winter coat in the warmth of summer. Peel back until all that is left is what is really inside. Although come to think of it I’m rather fond of the barrier this “faux finish” puts between me and the world.
20 September 2007 at 2:55 am
I regularly check my attic to see if there’s a portrait in there growing smugly younger.
20 September 2007 at 10:31 am
AUW: I think it’s highly fortunate that there are those that can read through the mire.
Camille: Most of the time I don’t want to shed mine completely, either. I just want a nicer one. Pure vanity, really.
Ben: Speaking of vanity, Mr. Gray…