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The Perfectionist
Wailing, wailing. My family is wailing. Don’t watch us. Our suffering is not meant for display.
Howling, shrieking. My family is in throes. The applause smiles as though we are kittens in a cage. I can hear my relatives’ whispering cries. Echo, echo. They echo in the cell.
Don’t look at me. Please. We are nailed to the walls and you capture this languid state.
I do not deserve this life.
It didn’t start out this way. You, treating my siblings with delicacy. I often muse on our house, the candlelit facsimile rubied rooms in which you lavished us with affection, twirled us to the sound of jazz on your records. Could I have saved you before you trickled into turbulence?
Don't look at me. This is not what I was made for. He bleached my cell. Don't look at me.
The sycophantic seagulls praise me. As if I ask them to. As if I'm begging.
As if this is what I was made for -this is not what I was made for- You liars.
My flesh was not stained to suggest your sophisticated sagaciousness, pigments not pinned for your impertinent pry. Don’t look at me. For I do not want to be looked at.
You liar. Your insincerity, causing our insecurity, causing this room to be sharpened and scratched by the sardonic thoughts of your own design.
Pieces scarred and scathed by your own shortage of sanity.
My siblings and I weep for their watching. We shower the walls evenly.
6 inches apart! He says to the seagulls, Beautiful! He crowns me in front of them.
The word I brainlessly yet relentlessly sought from you. You, who burnt my house down;
You are mindless. Reckless. Foolish as the scum on their feet.
You burnt my house down, if only you victoriously burnt me with it.
I vividly remember you; who dressed us as dross, slashed our faces to your unsated desires.
I believed I was blessed with such attention. A divinity from which you drained my faith, day by day. I let you skin me, remove my colour. Over and over again.
Footsteps, footsteps, -these I await- he pulls the lever. First, a viscid fluorescence spills across the cell roof. It drools. It oozes. It suffocates my vision as the scintillation drowns me further into the noisome walls. Next, a soporific sewage fills the washed out cell to the brim, stirring, swaying, sinking me. Suddenly, the distressed bellows contort into a silhouette which falls into tense stillness. Is this what they hear? Is this what they see? Those who hung me up?
Hushed me into silence? Does this seamless cry succeed to satisfy?
The wailing, the howling, the shrieking. Oh I remember that day. The day of your death.
The angelic flames, the ashes that shower heaven. Six inches apart! You had my family flowering the walls. You, lying in the middle.
Beautiful! You cackled, something I had never seen in you before.
Burn, burn. I would have been consumed by the saints in seconds!
10, 9, 8... Oh, the dreadful sound of those sirens. They captured my family. 7, 6, 5… Firemen coating the house with satan’s bathtub. Why won’t you let me burn? 4,3,2...
The fire stops.
In this cell, your name is etched on every wall. As if this cell is your grave.
As if our torture is a sacrifice to honour your resting place. “Lovely! Pleasing! Perfect!“
They applaud. They labeled me art, they call this cell a gallery.
Still all I ever was to you was a blotched, bloody canvas.
Howling, shrieking. My family is in throes. The applause smiles as though we are kittens in a cage. I can hear my relatives’ whispering cries. Echo, echo. They echo in the cell.
Don’t look at me. Please. We are nailed to the walls and you capture this languid state.
I do not deserve this life.
It didn’t start out this way. You, treating my siblings with delicacy. I often muse on our house, the candlelit facsimile rubied rooms in which you lavished us with affection, twirled us to the sound of jazz on your records. Could I have saved you before you trickled into turbulence?
Don't look at me. This is not what I was made for. He bleached my cell. Don't look at me.
The sycophantic seagulls praise me. As if I ask them to. As if I'm begging.
As if this is what I was made for -this is not what I was made for- You liars.
My flesh was not stained to suggest your sophisticated sagaciousness, pigments not pinned for your impertinent pry. Don’t look at me. For I do not want to be looked at.
You liar. Your insincerity, causing our insecurity, causing this room to be sharpened and scratched by the sardonic thoughts of your own design.
Pieces scarred and scathed by your own shortage of sanity.
My siblings and I weep for their watching. We shower the walls evenly.
6 inches apart! He says to the seagulls, Beautiful! He crowns me in front of them.
The word I brainlessly yet relentlessly sought from you. You, who burnt my house down;
You are mindless. Reckless. Foolish as the scum on their feet.
You burnt my house down, if only you victoriously burnt me with it.
I vividly remember you; who dressed us as dross, slashed our faces to your unsated desires.
I believed I was blessed with such attention. A divinity from which you drained my faith, day by day. I let you skin me, remove my colour. Over and over again.
Footsteps, footsteps, -these I await- he pulls the lever. First, a viscid fluorescence spills across the cell roof. It drools. It oozes. It suffocates my vision as the scintillation drowns me further into the noisome walls. Next, a soporific sewage fills the washed out cell to the brim, stirring, swaying, sinking me. Suddenly, the distressed bellows contort into a silhouette which falls into tense stillness. Is this what they hear? Is this what they see? Those who hung me up?
Hushed me into silence? Does this seamless cry succeed to satisfy?
The wailing, the howling, the shrieking. Oh I remember that day. The day of your death.
The angelic flames, the ashes that shower heaven. Six inches apart! You had my family flowering the walls. You, lying in the middle.
Beautiful! You cackled, something I had never seen in you before.
Burn, burn. I would have been consumed by the saints in seconds!
10, 9, 8... Oh, the dreadful sound of those sirens. They captured my family. 7, 6, 5… Firemen coating the house with satan’s bathtub. Why won’t you let me burn? 4,3,2...
The fire stops.
In this cell, your name is etched on every wall. As if this cell is your grave.
As if our torture is a sacrifice to honour your resting place. “Lovely! Pleasing! Perfect!“
They applaud. They labeled me art, they call this cell a gallery.
Still all I ever was to you was a blotched, bloody canvas.
