Unmasked (aka The Botox Poem)
The waiting room is frozen in silence
except for her manicured nails tapping
on the cold metal chairs that are designed
primarily to be uncomfortable.
A fan clicks impatiently as each
of its vanes tries to escape their caged prison.
A man in a white coat walks in the room
and smiles so wide and the room
is blinded by his vain attempt to impress.
The woman shyly smiles but not enough
to wrinkle her brow, to show her crows feet.
Her mother, now sixty, is plagued
with imperfections and purple spider veins
that web around every inch of her skin.
The woman shivers at the thought
of aging, her skin folding like old worn sheets.
She wants to stay young forever, her
skin tightly woven like fine silk, smooth to touch.
He pulls out a needle and injects it
into her pale forehead, middle of the brow.
Her face goes numb and she no longer
senses that she has a face. How graceful.
lovely
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