This is a reprint of one of my prose poems previously published in Gyroscope Review.

A prose poem is poetic verse written in prose, but preserving poetic qualities such as heightened imagery, emotion, and compactness.

First, a facial. Then, a pedicure. I’ll be Sleeping Beauty: creamy complexion, hair fanned around my face like a halo of innocence. Or one of those women in the old masterpieces: reclining on my chaise, my flowing garment positioned in a perfect pattern of flattering folds. I don’t care what Stewart says. He called me shallow, a coward. But he doesn’t understand. It’s not fair. He’s trying to make me feel guilty. But there’s no guilt. The hell with him. Tonight, I’ll slip into my new lingerie and the long turquoise dress with the lace trim on the bodice and sleeves. A bottle of the finest wine will caress my tongue and numb my body. Twenty-nine scented candles, one for every year of my life, will flicker and create dancing patterns of light and shadow on the walls. Then I’ll listen to classical music while I run my fingers through my hair: my long, silky hair with the soft curls. My destiny is clear. This will only happen once. Once. Maybe I am shallow because I want to be beautiful. But it’s my life. I refuse to go bald. I refuse to feel pain. I’ll swallow the entire bottle of sedatives, then lie back on the sofa for my final sleep. And I will not smudge my mascara with tears.