Impress the Baba Yaga?
Surely one can't impress The Big B., but amuse...? Perhaps. Oh, but I am in full costume, Baba, just look at my face...there's a smile on it. I smile a wide, wilfull smile that makes invisible the ice pick in my right eye that plunges downward into a cheek thick and numb. I smile and my slintered neck appears whole. I'll try and muster a laugh sometime later to transform the look of my deflated, misshapen heart.
No, no...look again, Baba; I am in full costume. I come bearing smiles and gifts, true, but the gifts are offered by a youthfully smoothe hand dark gray and too stiff for the scarcity of the years of its owner.
Oh, yes...do be careful of the laundering details of your gift. The pink fluffy bits around the vagina are delicate, not recommended for the dryer.
Yes, Baba, still I think, but let me remove this crown of golden hair, the beautiful lid on the coffin of this living dead girl, and show you how the mind that still thinks has parts missing, others misshapen, others twisted, all of it black and always strangling itself.
Yes, Baba, still I eat these sweets you offer, but my teeth are as stupid as my desires and like rapacious creditors. So mad are they to devour everything they try ceaselessly to bite themselves, allowing nothing to be savoured and never nourishing the soulkeeper. You and I, Baba, understand the wrenching futility of stupid teeth.
Yes, Baba, still I can stand, but let me turn coyly away for a moment and let this rough covering slip to my waste and show you what little is left my spine, cracked and warped in places from too heavy a burden in youth, elsewhere rotted or gone from lack of use in recent years.
Yes, Baba, still I walk, but let me pull aside this burlap skirt, this winding sheet, let me show you the knees of gray, shredded flesh and shattered bone, yellowed in age, where again and again too often I have fallen.
My eyes? Yes...aren't they lovely? They're the perfect touch that pulls the whole costume together. Look again to my spine to know my eyes' unwillingness, and to my knees to know their ineffectiveness.
Yes, Baba, still I speak, soft words of love and harmony, but inside I'm a whore making scary sounds. There is no corner of this icy carapace I can lift and let fall aside to reveal that last truth. How ironic, don't you think, that my words are what I use most effectively to fool my audience, though they are not part of my costume, and yet they are the only things I can change?