When she splits her ivory skin,
The pain rushes out in a wild cacaphony of victorious buglers,
Signalling the temporary respite from anxiety and despair.
Then comes the rush of relief, the dizzying exhileration,
And a feeling of glorious rebirth.
Red pools stain the stern linoleum,
And turn thick and sticky like the scum that clogs arteries,
Or that wrinkled film that grows on cooling tomato soup,
Left carelessly on the stove overnight.
Her whitening toes squish the wet, bloody mulch.
The wound gapes wide, like a raging tiger's mouth,
More repulsive than the creature's deer-stained breath.
Lines of blue sutre silence a ragged scream,
That cruelly defiles her smooth and supple canvas of skin.
But then, un-nervingly, the pain returns once more,
And laughs uproariously at her from the nearby mirror.
This bathroom ritual, the midnight letting go of life's sacred liquid,
Is of benefit, profit and ultimate gain,
To the industry who trundles out these sharp, glinting tools,
Imagining, I suppose,
Their wares utilized in removing unwanted body hair,
Or carving in soapstone,
The image of a smiling, self-loving little girl.
Jane Wanklin
1997.