Musings

poetry, prose, and everything in-between

graceful inadequacy

 

When I poke at my skin

I am both the surgeon and the patient
laid out across the table
under the fluorescence of stage lights

“maybe,”

the surgeon says, pulling and snapping at my cheek
“if we take this top layer off… you could look a bit more presentable…”
he prepares his knife, ready for a battle lacking a proper opponent.

I do not flinch because
I will take great lengths to prove that
I am more beautiful than the rest.

the blade grazes unblemished skin
discarding leftovers into a bowl
creating a salad of deficiency.

hungry ants get to work on their meal of rejected flesh.

at the end I am handed a mirror

and
I
look
better.

I think.

or maybe i’ll have to search the drugstore

for another solution to my

graceful inadequacy.