Mimeography in Flesh

Drip, drip, drip,
Comes the flow from the slip,
Of a blade,
As it slowly wade,
Through the smooth glassy surface,
That once bore the grace,
Of being unmarred,
Yes even unscarred,
Tender flesh,
Now crisscrossed by a mesh,
Of slips and lacerations,
Of cuts and macerations,
The drip, drip , drip,
Pooling from chest, face, thighs, hips,
The carving, the crisscross,
Checker-boarding, removing flesh like dross,
Slip, snip, Slip,
Comes the sound of poorly fixed rip,
As needle, thread, and scissors patch,
On pieces that are but a poor match,
Snip, snip, stitch, stitch,
Trying to emulate the famous, and rich,
Self loathing vivisection,
To try to achieve another’s ‘perfection’,
Trading your flawless unique flesh,
For a tattered, wretched, mimeographed mesh,
Society’s collage sewn into your individuality,
Scarring, marring, tarnishing all you could be,
If only you hadn’t sought to be cachet,
And instead to let today,
The master paint your canvass alone,
Then the masterpiece, you, would have been shown.