The Undead, One-Person Poet Society: The Wildflower



She slips the scarlet silk through her fingers like a slinking memory, or passing moment. It has only been a few minutes, but the clock has lapsed three full cycles already, as though the Moon woke up three days ago to get a head start from the Sun. Her lips are drenched in crimson, cheeks plastered rouge, and eyelids coated in candy dust. Only her lashes remain their natural colour, just intensified under layers of precision and ebony body paint.
When she was a little girl her eyebrows were unruly like her spirit, a wildflower kicking in the breeze. Now she remains passive, a cultivated flower, only wild in the sense that she must spread her seeds.

Her legs are pale, stripped of their texture. It is a small price to pay for beauty.

A transient thing, beauty is.

It is fluid and ever changing, based on a construction, a figment from the social imagination. Society's mirror reflects back its appetites, feeding the attention hungry. 

Everyone is attention hungry.
Hungry for belonging. 
Hungry for beauty. 
Hungry for happiness.

We search for this belonging, beauty, and happiness through things.
Through the scarlet silk slipping through her fingers, or the crimson on her lips.

She is not a thing. She seeks after the same pursuit, but while she seeks, she is exploited. 
A wildflower.
A free spirit in an immaculate garden.

The clock hits the five minute mark.
The ten minute mark.
Fifteen.
Twenty.
Yet for her it has been a fortnight, as though the watch does not watch, the way she is used to being watched. They stare at her all the time. Their beady eyes and salivating mouths. Their greasy raven hair pushed back in a frenzy to wipe the face from the tiny droplets of sweat forming in the crevice of the upper lip and furrows of the forehead. They clench their jaw and moan. They gnash their teeth. 

Gnash their teeth.
That was their worst habit. It was the grinding, the enamel against enamel, that haunted her. The action painted a biblical scene of fire and limestone, but instead of the sensuous contempt they were projecting, she saw a more pleasurable vision. The vision found in the gratifying thought of their damned soul. A damned creature, bound in the chains of their abuse and crime of an earlier day.

A belief in eventual justice makes things more bearable.
A belief in eventual justice did not make the time pass more quickly however.

Twenty-Five.
He is running late.
It's not her fault.
But, it always ends up being her fault.

He spits in her face at the end, and grabs his jacket.
It isn't a harsh black leather, or acid washed denim that would imply a life of reckless drugs, sex, and rock 'n' roll. No, the greasy raven haired men were not careless. They were careful men, who lived judiciously and wore faded corduroy jackets that their wives had carefully selected from the department store. Their houses were white picket fences gating inside a life that was filled with grocery bills, car loans, consumer debt for the big screen televisions and new nursery furniture. Their kitchens were probably painted in a bright yellow lacquer with country motifs and bowls with fake plastic fruit placed on the centre of a mahogany dining set. Theirs was a morning with sunny side up eggs and toast with the crusts cut off.

Nobody likes the crusts.
She was the crust.

He adjusts the zipper of his pleated pants.
They were the greasy raven haired men of pleated pants.
Pleated pants their wives had picked out in the department store before their coffee and afternoon martini dates with the girlfriends.

He throws down the crumpled bills, and quickly exits, letting the generic door softly click behind him.
She feels herself in the money. Crumpled, tossed aside, and undervalued.

Thirty minutes.
But for her, it has been an eternity.
Even a wildflower will die one day.

My Signature photo ScreenShot2013-01-19at64007PM_zps0ca5128b.png


© Miss Lauren Kyle
Maira Gall