If Caliban were to gaze upon its own flesh what would it think?
Monstrous legs, twisting like the tendrils of a mangrove, swathed with matted hair.
The skin beneath coarse and pale as if the sun herself were ashamed to look.
Scarred and damaged, its arms share a story of pain and self-inflicted misery;
Marks that ooze and spill and bubble at the lack of care given.
Its hands, in their grotesque form, fumble and break all that they touch.
The worst offense to God and nature occurs at the shoulders,
Broad and thick, hunched over and desolate of any beauty;
Clothes barely fit upon the back of the beast,
Never able to hide the features well enough to rid it of a stranger’s glare.
Its face—hideous, malformed and aged by years of self-hatred—harbors
Crude fibers, which sprout no matter how often a blade is taken.
Hair, coated in grime, falls scrappy and short.
Doomed never to feel the forgiving kiss of Spring’s breeze.
How does such an abomination live with itself,
Knowing that its soul and body will never be one?
2 thoughts on “Infliction”