By Sascha Cohen
Wear all your favorite perfumes now:
your Serge Lutens and your Frederic Malle
Soon you’ll smell just like the hospital
The top notes are saline and alcohol
The base notes are soiled linens and decay,
waste leaking from wounds,
Braid bows and ribbons
into your long hair
Pile the curls up like a layer cake
on the top of your head
Bat your lashes like an angelic doll
Soon you’ll turn from woman to worm,
ordinary and featureless,
and no one
will behold you with desire
Show off your teardrop breasts
every chance you get:
wear pasties seashells sequins
or wear nothing, take photos and send them
to strangers, spill yourself
into the lucky mouths of lovers
Soon you’ll have silicone globes
sewn tightly onto your chest, bloodless,
numb, and never warm
in anyone’s hands
Now say it,
you poor, doomed beauty.
Say it like someone is clutching you by the jaw.
Say you’re so grateful to be alive.
Sascha Cohen is a writer from Los Angeles.
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