The Ballad of Narcissism

The sound of the bristles of the comb
ripping through your tangled hair
shhhrrrpppttt, shhhrrrpppttt
like bark being ripped from a tree
or thousands of pieces of paper
being torn in half at once.
It’s enough to make me go deaf.

Then the subtle popping noise
as you pump the wand of your mascara
in and out of its rounded base
fffffwop, fffffwop
the liquidy blackness a congealed mess on the brush
as you drag it around on your eyelashes

Next is the scraping of your nail file
as you whittle down the jagged ends
of your long nails, painted with fuschia
sstthhhhht, sstthhhhht
like sandpaper to wood, only more pitiful

You conclude with a muted pant
as you gape at yourself in the mirror,
applying eyeliner, mouth hanging wide open
as if you couldn’t possibly draw a straight line otherwise.
hhhhaahhhh, hhhaahhhh
your breath fogs up the mirror rhythmically, like a pulse.

I’m used to this discordant symphony by now
as I listen with impatience from outside the bathroom door
waiting and waiting, as you serve as the conductor
to the concerto of your vanity.


- LAP etc.