Botox Poem by Kat Casey 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.
Posted on: Sat, 20 Jul 2013 10:46:33 +0000