A Beau for the Monster

Nobody wants a sallow girl
with scar-puckered lips that leer
to one side. I am made
of dead pieces. Sinew and skin
hold me in. Patched
and sewn. Not one piece
my own.

I continue to rot.
The brown bog of my gum
swallows yellow teeth.
Vestigial sacs sag
ooze and leak. Muscles
cramp. Tendons quake.
Organs break. Mine
is not a clever design.

Born hungry like you, my cries
curdled air. I searched
the lair. Grubby glass.
Twisted wire. Gas
burners and fire. So I fed
on the library instead.

I learned that woman
mates and makes. But
my bloated
face! And my hands …
mealy fingernails split, leather palms
damp like clay. I scare
them away.

So I made you,
my love. You are sutured and strung.
Brittle and wrong. A little
too tight in your skin. You will
wear it in.

Let our rotting begin.

© Tegan Jane Schetrumpf