Disfigured II
Her skin slides off of her bones in decay.
Her eyes deflate and leak down the only half of her face.
Her mouth is open as if to speak, and she’d be looking at you had not her thalamus slid from her skull to her chest in its grey gelatinous form leaving stains on her skin.
You think she cannot be sentient as she stretches her arms out towards you.
You think, for a moment, of fleeing.
But you remember, you love her, and your right hand rises against the glass panel with that hardly woman behind it.
Your warmth creates a fog where your hand rests, and hers, raw and rotted, bled, bones exposed scratches the opposite side of the panel, beneath your touch.
And you can feel her cold, and you imagine that this is a gesture of affection.
You regret being alive, and she presses her whole almost self against the glass.
Her open jaw of teeth and tongue moves and though the barrier between the two of you prevents what you imagine to be her voice from reaching you, you imagine she says she loves you.
You’d rather not have heard the sounds you knew she made.
Her scratching grows intense, and your imagination attributes this to longing.
Greedy, selfish, creature, you are, you think she remembers you.
Her skin is white and blue; you can see her heart beat in her veins.
Her hair, sparse and grimy, retains the violet hue you fell in love with.
You step back, your clear handprint framed by condensation.
Looking there, you remember how beautiful she was, and you turn and walk away.
Her eyes deflate and leak down the only half of her face.
Her mouth is open as if to speak, and she’d be looking at you had not her thalamus slid from her skull to her chest in its grey gelatinous form leaving stains on her skin.
You think she cannot be sentient as she stretches her arms out towards you.
You think, for a moment, of fleeing.
But you remember, you love her, and your right hand rises against the glass panel with that hardly woman behind it.
Your warmth creates a fog where your hand rests, and hers, raw and rotted, bled, bones exposed scratches the opposite side of the panel, beneath your touch.
And you can feel her cold, and you imagine that this is a gesture of affection.
You regret being alive, and she presses her whole almost self against the glass.
Her open jaw of teeth and tongue moves and though the barrier between the two of you prevents what you imagine to be her voice from reaching you, you imagine she says she loves you.
You’d rather not have heard the sounds you knew she made.
Her scratching grows intense, and your imagination attributes this to longing.
Greedy, selfish, creature, you are, you think she remembers you.
Her skin is white and blue; you can see her heart beat in her veins.
Her hair, sparse and grimy, retains the violet hue you fell in love with.
You step back, your clear handprint framed by condensation.
Looking there, you remember how beautiful she was, and you turn and walk away.