Veil of Perdition Obsessive-compulsive Dystopia

Veil of perdition

Cynthia Balea

Another day, another broken string Between my dimples which have shoveled Graves of their own to find comfort in forever. If only it were that easy to hide… I’d probably carry a shovel every time I go out Either to plant myself in the ground, Or use it as a lethal weapon. Both being, in all fairness, means of protection Against ever-smiling people, complaisance and small talk.

How do I protect me from myself The moments I’ve got no other choice Then warping into what I disgust the most? Commit hara-kiri with a shovel Or start digging into myself Until I reach The unfathomable layers Of what I represent?

What do I represent? I’m often called a sweetheart By people who haven’t even gotten A taste of my bitterness, So, next time they see candies, They turn into toddlers Whose teeth are decayed From all that sweets consumption That eventually turns into an addiction.

I can’t stand chocolate anymore. Or people who offer it to me Like a portent of sugar-coated words Embroidering their acrid personalities. But the holes remain Just like the aftertaste… And you don’t really feel like smiling When you’ve got dental caries, do you? The same cliché I’ve been rolling my eyes over Ever since I was toothless: “A smile is the prettiest thing to wear.” Well, I prefer necklaces Or earrings Or frowns Or grimaces Or crossed arms. There’s a plethora of emotions body language And facial expressions can encompass. Why fake happiness Out of being polite And kill the spark With a smile?

I guess you’ve figured Why I despise chit-chat in the meantime, But the issue lingers still — Is it really the topic in question Or the people involved? Don’t look at me so Expectantly. I haven’t found the answer I thought I would. Instead, I found a mask — So beautifully adorned That I could not resist. And upon placing it on my visage, It didn’t fit. It required a different type of facial features Than the ones I was acquainted with.

I raised my eyebrows, Narrowed my eyes, Stretched the corners of my mouth, Exposed my teeth And became stuck in there forever.

Obsessive-compulsive Dystopia

Cynthia Balea

When I pass by people, I capture a bit of everyone In between my eyelids. Be it a red strand of hair, A crooked nose Or a dirty pair of sneakers. I involuntarily observe tiny details Invisible for the inexperienced seer. I’m short-sighted, yet my eyes’ ability To zoom in fascinates me! It almost gets me to the point where I can’t compliment your hair color ‘Cause I am repelled by that one dandruff flake Hanging loose from your fringe like a mature apple From the bent branch of an orchard tree. I can’t picture your nasal pyramid ‘Cause I am vacuumed by your black hole-resembling pores. I can’t keep in mind that widely known brand of footwear ‘Cause I can feel the mud on your shoes crawling up my legs!

I’ll see your black roots no matter how often you bleach your hair. I’ll see the pimple despite masking it evenly with concealer. I’ll still be able to read through the white-out after erasing What’s written in pen. I’ll scrape my lips applying lipstick for the thousandth time ‘Cause I want it perfectly. And, one by one, I will consume myself as rapidly As the crimson wears out.

I’m exhausted! I wanna crash in bed BUT NOT before I arrange the pillows And spread the sheets neatly, Just like I’ve seen in commercials. I’d love to throw my books on the desk AFTER I dust it off the third time this week And it’s only Tuesday. Wouldn’t it be nice If I could keep a conversation going Without obsessing over my interlocutor’s Asymmetrical smile Improperly ironed shirt Sweaty palms Long nails Broken zipper Ripped pants Untied shoelaces? Hey, look! A mirror! A reflection of everything I’ll ever be! Or the handiest realization of distinction I always love to find comfort in! But… This one’s broken. How can I observe myself When all these scratches get in the way As if I’m sectioned?

I am taking a step backwards. The scratches too. Wherever I move, they come with me, Attached like caterpillars On a freshly sprung leaf. And they’re chewing. Outside in. Digging voids through the (W)hole that I am.

Born and raised in Transylvania, Cynthia Balea knew she had a calling for poetry ever since her first creative writing assignments in elementary school. Now she is a Modern Languages student, a spoken word performer, and spare-time writer. Her poems have been published in cultural online magazines like EgoPHobia.