Beauty

A razor is stuck in my throat,

cutting the walls of my esophagus,

traveling down to my lungs,

scraping against my chambers of four,

until the edge of my aorta bursts,

sprouting blood like a party popper,

staining my white dress red,

the color of dead roses,

a shocking sight to see,

like an empty canvas splattered with pomegranate,

or a Japanese flag painted by a child’s shaky hand,

or a white rug covered in crimson falsity,

a drink spilled by an elderly’s trembling fingers,

and as I watch the crowd,

their eyes drilling into mine,

I stand still,

as the razor continues to rake my insides,

grating lower and lower,

slashing me,

and in my frozen stance,

I swallow the bile on my tongue,

and brush the bitter taste aside,

and instead,

I straighten my shoulders and smile wide,

making sure my teeth are in view,

and my posture is sharp,

and as the blades reach the tips of my fingers,

I turn my hands into fists,

into two clenched rocks,

to hide the pain from their biting eyes—

all...

in the name

of b e a u t y.