There’s this salon
on the high-street of my city.
Neon-lighted,
forever Christmas-like.
A frenzied celebration
of face masks.
I remember
this fragrant lobby,
waltzing in instrumental music
to cover the din.
This fabricated peace,
that always
gets me on tenterhooks.
Plastic perfection
moulded into smiles.
"Would you like to get rid of your moles?"
she asks,
"Why? I love my moles."
self talk
They are the shooting stars
emerging through my body.
They represent
unfulfilled wishes.
"No," I manage to say.
"How about that scar then?
Would you want to cover that up?
It will disappear, I assure you!"
self talk
And what about the pain
associated with this scar?
The one that erupts
for no reason. Out of a memory,
a suspended patch of past
in the limbo of present.
I shudder at the thought
of my scar-less face.
This flaw holds me together,
like I grew around this scar
layer after layer.
"No," I say with a smile.
These moles. This scar.
They are mine,
my un-fabricated perfection.