Laura Arman
Visit Laura Arman's profile page
Poem "The electric chair":
- written October 2009
- published October 28, 2009
- viewed 12 times
Other poems by Laura Arman:
»A rush of thoughts«
»Boxed Up«
»Daddy's Girl«
»Falling uncontrollably«
»I see«
»If you can't get me«
»March«
»My Class«
»no second chance«
»Old Women's Perfume«
»She«
»Shipwrecked«
»still holding on...«
»Still walking«
»The sad girl on the train«
»The soul«
»The very last word«
»They all say«
»Wake up«
»When you really don't need me anymore please throw me away in the recycling bin«
Visit Laura Arman's profile page
Poem "The electric chair":
- written October 2009
- published October 28, 2009
- viewed 12 times
Other poems by Laura Arman:
»A rush of thoughts«»Boxed Up«»Daddy's Girl«»Falling uncontrollably«»I see«»If you can't get me«»March«»My Class«»no second chance«»Old Women's Perfume«»She«»Shipwrecked«»still holding on...«»Still walking«»The sad girl on the train«»The soul«»The very last word«»They all say«»Wake up«»When you really don't need me anymore please throw me away in the recycling bin«»The electric chair«
by Laura Arman
I sit myself down in the electric chair and press the button.
The one that says eat me, I'm 900 calories and I taste good.
I clip the tweezers to my arms and legs and face,
All the places I look at myself in disgust.
I cover my face with the sack of shame
where I've written all my failures and regrets and humiliation.
I twiddle with the knob that extenuates the volume,
The song playing, taking me back to the summer of 99,
when my heart was smashed into a gazillion pieces.
And I bash my clenched fist against the arm of the chair,
releasing the repeat button, over and over and over again.
I sit myself down in the electric chair.
I press the button and tell myself I'm not worth it.
But I am.
The one that says eat me, I'm 900 calories and I taste good.
I clip the tweezers to my arms and legs and face,
All the places I look at myself in disgust.
I cover my face with the sack of shame
where I've written all my failures and regrets and humiliation.
I twiddle with the knob that extenuates the volume,
The song playing, taking me back to the summer of 99,
when my heart was smashed into a gazillion pieces.
And I bash my clenched fist against the arm of the chair,
releasing the repeat button, over and over and over again.
I sit myself down in the electric chair.
I press the button and tell myself I'm not worth it.
But I am.
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