by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2020
Poetry
by Mariela Flores ’23
I took myself apart today.
I started with my head
Twisting and turning,
unscrewing it from the base of my neck.
A weight was lifted off my shoulders
and I was lighter than I had ever been.
I held myself in my hands and began to count.
Two eyes, two eyebrows, one nose, one mouth, one birthmark, three beauty marks.
Countless sleepless nights turned paper-thin skin purple
two eyes, two eyebrows, one nose, one mouth, one birthmark, three beauty marks.
I took myself apart today.
I continued with my skin,
Ripping it to shreds
Bit
By
Bit
Until I was just bones and organs
and my body was oozing blood.
My mirror almost shattered from the force of my fingers.
Digging deeper and deeper
desperate to find something beneath the tears.
They found nothing
I was empty.
I took myself apart today.
I ended with my bones.
Noticed the crack from when I was seven,
the thud from when I was twelve.
I was clumsy back then.
My bones were not like ivory
you could see the wear;
my bones were yellow.
Like the walls in a room.
I took myself apart today
and I was surprised by the mess I had made.