The Ugly Sister
The bouquets -
lips puckered for the sun –
are girlish ploys; patterned
and perfumed for command;
not love words,
standing prominent on her dresser.
I watch how they shy away
from the colour of her hair,
the pull of her comb,
the smile of her lipstick.
Their thorns are ripe,
hurt rough; incisors for circumcision.
I sit on the end of the bed
and watch her preen;
a delicate dab of scent
on her collarbone, a feather
dust of rouge on her cheeks.
She speaks to me while she decorates,
her words like cotton candy;
the sick stomach of mine,
boulder pregnant, and all the while
I know that beauty is not in this room,
not pillow talked
through her pearly veneers
that glitter in the soft light.
The flowers feel put out;
performing beyond their jurisdiction
for every time she breathes them in
her self stagnates and I know
that in spite of my lumpy flesh,
my crookedness, there is no
beauty in this room; there is no
sweetness in the creamed peach
cushions of her shoulders
that flirt in sight of herself
in the oval mirror.
She tells me of all her suitors,
her feminine charms, archaic;
of how she pleases them
by displeasing them; how
they hurt for her as if she were
a moon, drowning in her
always turning face. I see
that there is no beauty
in this room, this mask
of lust she paints on.
She smiles at me
lacking the wit to know
she needs them more
and I almost pity her -
almost -
as she drags her
witch nails over
chocolate boxes and jewellery,
dropping the pleading cards
into the abyss of the floor.
Mikhail Smith
Mon 19th Nov 2012 22:26
- You're brilliant. - Please write a novel. - Start now. -