Nosferatu’s Elegy

Once, I was Nosferatu.
My skin, akin to baking paper:
Greased and glistening,
Not thin enough to tear upon touch,
Maybe with a hard poke,
But too thin and overcut to fit the tray it was lining.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
My eyes sagging like sleepless urchins:
Dark and unapproachable,
Pricking those who looked—
A punishment for the crime of observation—
And stabbing into the baking paper skin they sat on.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
My head, like a wild mushroom:
Bulbous and misshapen,
Dented by my environment,
Appearing poisonous with the spawning points
Of acne trails down my greasy baking paper skin and wrapping under my urchin eyes.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
My eyebrows resembling black slugs:
Thick and distinct,
Easy to spot on a bright, clay path,
An overt mark of my paternal family,
Hiding beneath my wild mushroom head, but finding no disguise on my baking paper skin above my urchin eyes.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
My teeth reminding of bathroom tiles:
Garish and obtrusive,
Sore on the eyes when the shower curtain is drawn back
Reluctantly complimented by neighbours pitying the otherwise tolerable design,
And an unnatural contrast to the black slug eyebrows above my urchin eyes on my baking paper skin, down from my wild mushroom head.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
Ears mimicking flagpoles:
Jutting and signaling,
Bearing large, white flags to show I would surrender,
Compromise to my attacker and let them
Know my appearance had earned their subjection—my capacity to strike had been a façade from the start.

Once, I was Nosferatu.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
I walked into open curtains.
I felt the sun.
I burned.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
A char stain on the carpet.
Specks of former flesh
Still sizzling.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
I now wear a new coat.
It covers all resemblance of who I once was,
The atoms of roasting body still present inside of me.

Once, I was Nosferatu.
I am still burning.