“Beauty is skin deep,” they lied
As they sliced a scalpel through my layers
Peeled away the trauma and self-doubt
Cut up my heart to better examine it
Under their microscopes and cameras.
“I think, therefore I am,” I whispered
As they discarded my brain
Counted the number of fat molecules in my thighs
Measured the roundness of my hips
Weighed my quiet uterus.
I once bore fruit to their liking.
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” they explained
As they sanded my bones virgin white
Erased curves, drew in others
Sewed back the corners of my lipsticked mouth
To smile everlasting
Stitched me to a Frankenstein wholeness
I was me until I wasn’t.
In their dash to perfection
They neglected my vocal chords
Forgot to splice the tongue from my swanlike throat.
Placed me on a marble pedestal for all to admire.
They heard me roar then.
| Amanda Cook lives in the middle of a Southern Indiana woods with her spouse, kids, and one small, clingy dog. Her poetry appears at Kaleidotrope and The Future Fire, and her short fiction appears at Apex Magazine, Apparition Literary Magazine, and Etherea Magazine. Her climate fiction novel, When We Were Forgotten, won the 2018 Bronze Independent Publisher Book Award for Best Sci-fi/Fantasy/Horror E-book. She can be found musing about writing, parenting, cosplay, and life in general at acooksbooks.com. |  |