02-06-2013, 08:55 PM
Here is what I wrote, so without me saying anything, I'll post it. Let me know what you think.
I feel the spider web of swollen purple veins on what is left of my scalp pulsate in unison. Sadly, my Kentucky fried brain can still remember that I have school tomorrow. Knowing that such a minor fatality will not be enough to excuse me from returning to prison 7:45 tomorrow morning, I move the torch over the rest of my face. Like two swollen, soft goopy marshmallows having been placed in the microwave for far too long, the blobs which were once my eyes seep back into my brain to form some type of cannibalistic soup within my battered skull. Glancing down to see the long streak of what used to be my nose across my shirt reminds me of what I used to do with silly putty.
The oval shaped white bone from each of my eye sockets are exposed, bordered by the black ashes of my skin which still cling to the charred muscles of my face. Suddenly, the flame went out. The wind had yet to blow, and I would have much rather continued to sit in silence if it were not for the sizzling of my face.
Hair and Scalp
In the middle of a field covered by the grayish shade of trampled down grass blades, I bury the cold brass valve of the baby sized propane tank deep within the palm of my hand. As the dial of a radio shifts in search of a signal, my ears rise up to focus on the squeaking uttered by the turning valve. The wind is still as I strike a match and use it to ignite the flame of my torch. I smell the scent of frizzling hair as it quickly turns from blonde to black and withers away. My scalp, like a half burnt globe, left with the burnt texture of a hot over an open fire.I feel the spider web of swollen purple veins on what is left of my scalp pulsate in unison. Sadly, my Kentucky fried brain can still remember that I have school tomorrow. Knowing that such a minor fatality will not be enough to excuse me from returning to prison 7:45 tomorrow morning, I move the torch over the rest of my face. Like two swollen, soft goopy marshmallows having been placed in the microwave for far too long, the blobs which were once my eyes seep back into my brain to form some type of cannibalistic soup within my battered skull. Glancing down to see the long streak of what used to be my nose across my shirt reminds me of what I used to do with silly putty.
The oval shaped white bone from each of my eye sockets are exposed, bordered by the black ashes of my skin which still cling to the charred muscles of my face. Suddenly, the flame went out. The wind had yet to blow, and I would have much rather continued to sit in silence if it were not for the sizzling of my face.
