A Killer

A Killer

Vanity is the crutch of the dissatisfied,

the crows, the Papier Mache, cookie cutouts,

still bourns who parade with arms like balloons.

There’s nothing as sickening as saccharine but

delusion is a close second; lying to oneself is

like slapping one’s own face till beet red;

pleasurable in some regard yet ultimately hopeless

and utterly ignorant when you stop and think about it.

To walk about weathered, blistered, open is

hard. The cuts across your lips get coarse, the

bald spots show more, your knees get skinned.

But to hold one’s head without a prop, ah,

what a revelation! It’s never comfortable but

then again, neither is wearing a corset.

So if you want to self-flagellate, don’t expect me

to watch. I’ve whipped myself enough to

know that blood is just blood and skin grows

back eventually and all that remains is what

actually lies beneath that sneer of yours.