My beauty is immaculate. With the exception of the onyx scab, in the middle of my forehead.
My arms, are soft marble. Identical, my breasts. The de Milo’s neck has nothing on my neck. I have edible lips, and unforgettable eyes. And I have the scab.
I tried picking it, when I was younger, to see if that would help. I tried many times. And each time the scab grew back, larger and blacker than it was before. It presently occupies half the surface area of my squama frontalis.
Men cannot resist me. So long as I’m holding an umbrella, or leaning on a column, head in my hand, as still, as the sundial, in the garden. Then they circle me, second hands, hands deep in their pockets. I can smell their need. And I could have any one of them. If it weren’t for the onyx scab.
I’ll poison myself. It’s settled. When, is the question. I’ve been lingering. Perhaps … the scab will dry up, after all, or fall off one night, in the night. I have a million creams, and potions. And a bottle, marked aqua mortis, water of death. My blue Doucet, I’ll wear, the fluid mantle. Pour myself out, on the bed, the silk coverlet. And drink.
It would be beautiful.
If it weren’t for the onyx scab.