*From the perspective of the one to whom Prufrock wants to ask a question in the poem "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T.S. Eliot.
In the room where women come and go
talking of Michelangelo
I noticed the strange man who was not like the rest.
He has leathered wrinkles of a worn-down body and
possessed the appearance of a mad man with a
bald spot in the middle of his thin salt and pepper hair,
limbs as thin and as fragile as
paper and glass;
he could break at any moment.
He was not like the rest.
He had stood in the corner of the room
mumbling nonsense to himself though
glaring menacingly at Elizabeth and I.
His eyes wandered around, analyzing every inch
as if slowly filling the room with water.
I did not desire to be rude for I was one
who talked of Michelangelo.
And indeed as we looked at the fine
arts and galleries displayed in the room,
I was much more interested in the intent of the man
while he watch us from afar.
As I had pretended not to notice him
he lumbered over, his feet shuffling like dry leaves in the wind
to stand up before me and stare me in the eye.
He was speechless before he flamboyantly spat out the overwhelming question,
as if rehearsed over and over again in his mind,
I was frantic inside. I was embarrassed.
I wanted to beat my humiliation into the pillows,
from my head to my fists and my fists to the floor,
my visage being as crimson as a sunset after a
stretched and draining day from all the
do's and don'ts, clawing at my stomach
and not being heard.
The tears want to come
but my eyes wouldn't let them; and all I could feel were the
eyes of all those that fix you in a formulated phrase,
nailed up upon the cross as if the crucify and expose me.
I had climbed high up that tree to
grow into someone I was not, only to have its branch snap and
send me dwindling into this very moment with the man who
was not like the rest.
Spit out like a used razor blade,
there is a tightness in my chest as I watch the face of a man
whose hopes and yearnings are awaken,
and they drown.
