Stench
I had to shove a pair of scissors up my nostrils the other day,
As there was a lingering, longing smell that wouldn’t go away.
It wasn’t any smell; it changed the more I sniffed.
It persisted and followed; I was miffed.
It started on the train during my commute.
I was alone when the problem took root.
I had just sat down when I gained a waft,
Sitting beneath my nose like an odious cravat.
Sweet like sour fruit, bleached in Summer,
Nauseatingly distracting, like an off beat drummer.
Hanging low, yet stinging from on high.
Like a mess from underfoot or a dying sigh.
I stare at nothing to my right side,
The source of the smell that wouldn’t abide.
I turned back, hoping to ignore the smell,
But little did I know the nature of this spell.
The hex of rot and alluring decay,
Followed me the entire way.
Soon I was amongst my fellow migrants,
Expecting to complain too with rage and rants.
But no one can sense the stench following me,
And I was lost for a reason how this could be.
Surely they were too polite and kind,
To not notice what I was unable to leave behind.
Or could they be cruel, seeding within me doubt,
To gaslight for their amusement, to enjoy and tout.
Why were their noses not flaring?
Were they without sense or caring?
We travelled in silence and calm,
Yet I was left wringing my palm.
I spent my Tuesday in quiet agony,
Losing touch with my own sanity.
For still no one acknowledged the stink,
Instead, asking why I was unable to think
I was only able to rob back moments of clarity,
Before I was brought back down by the gravity.
I left, claiming to have fallen ill,
But even fleeing, I could smell it still.
Shifting like smoke wafting through the air,
It morphed in smells I knew weren’t there.
I retreated home back to my wife,
Explain this strange and unforeseen strife.
She neither could sense as I did,
If she was lying, she had the truth well hid.
She suggested a shower to which I agreed,
Cleansing of body and mind was what I need.
But as I undressed and began to clean,
I still found the source was no where to be seen.
It didn’t linger on my clothes, but rather on myself,
I tried to use every product within reach of the shelf.
I scrubbed, and I scraped, and I scratched, and I scrunched.
My skin was damaged and ruined, as though beaten and punched.
I tried so hard that my skin bleed and stung,
Yet still it persisted and in my nose hung!
I inspected my nostrils expecting something wrong,
But all I found with strands of hair, wispy and long.
I held my breath and plugged my nose,
But still I felt sickened and morose.
I called my love and begged her for honesty,
Was I going mad; what was this travesty?
She tried to quell my concerns and suggested rest,
But even sleep had become an arduous test.
I lay awake for hours quietly dying in hell,
My reality becomes a husk; a former shell.
Each toss and turn brought new wafts to bed,
Each able to still relief from my head.
I kept as stoic as I could for my partner’s sake,
No sense in giving the scent more from whom to take.
What little sleep I may have enjoyed was no relief,
For what I dreamt only added to what was already beyond belief.
I was in my bedroom as it was laid out that night,
And at my bedside stood a stomach-dropping sight.
Made out of muck and covered in boils,
Its skin looks made from everything that spoils.
Sludge oozed from its pours but not its eyes,
They bore into me, ignoring my anguished cries.
I awoke screaming and terrified,
Neither of us slept; too horrified.
I went to see a doctor and explain my plight,
Hoping for some rationality and professional insight.
By this point, I was starting to waste,
As I no longer ate with starved haste.
The taste of food was overpowered by the haunting scent,
Attempts were met with my stomach becoming an expellent.
My former lazy heft had begun to retract,
As I stopped using my digestive tract.
My face was gaunt from lack of food and sleep,
I was so overwhelmed in the office I began to weep.
I pleaded for help, for some explanation.
Yet what I found was further damnation.
The doctor summed it in one word; psychosomatic.
Put plainly, she said I was being dramatic.
It’s all in my head, caused by work related stress,
Needless to say, this diagnoses failed to impress.
When she suggested meditation, I left in a rage;
I was sure I was being mocked by this stage.
Days passed, and I returned to the commute,
Working from home just didn’t suit.
I began to fight and argue more,
Everything was becoming a chore.
Our relationship was beginning to fray,
My affliction was leading my mind astray.
During the evening rush, on a packed train,
I saw a maddening sight I could explain.
Down the carriage, standing amongst others,
Was a woman old enough to be my mother.
Yet that wasn’t what attracted my gaze,
And brought my mind out of its haze.
She sniffed the air, repulsion on your face,
She searched for the source all over the place.
She eyed the men standing to her right,
She craned her neck to see those out of her sight.
Her nostrils flared and she continued her search,
Seeking cause for this slight, this smirch.
We pulled to a stop which must be her own,
As she made her way once the platform was shown.
I pushed against the tide of pressing bodies,
Wishing to part these brain-dead noddies.
I caused upset and swears aimed in my direction.
I didn’t care; I was a about to receive closure and correction.
I called out, maddened and red faced.
She simply stops to stare as I raced.
I grab hold of her and made my demands.
Was God toying with us like playthings in his hands!
She pleaded for help and I was wrenched off.
I was pinned down until my resistance ran soft.
She ran, fleeing into the night,
Still, I could smell; my eternal blight.
I was alone when I made my decision,
To end my torturous hell from God’s derision.
I was jobless and newly separated,
Abandoned and left devastated.
Had I not entered that train or simply picked that seat,
Perhaps I would not attempt the next feat.
If I was to be followed beyond death by the smell,
I could at least ensure I could ignore it in Hell.
I entered the bathroom and accept my fate,
I needed to stab myself in the cribriform plate.
It’s the part of your nose that lets you sense,
As you can imagine, my apprehension was immense.
I stared into my blood-shot eyes and steadied my nerve,
I had to choose; my sanity or my nose, which to preserve.
I picked up the pair and aligned the blades,
The details of what happened next are still a haze.
I plunged in deep, too deep, in fact.
I had done too much damage from the stupid act.
I didn’t die; I hadn’t been my own demise,
I had just accidentally been lobotomised.
I can still live, but things take slower,
I can still think, but my IQ is lower.
Sometimes my head hurts if I try too hard,
I need reminders in my house, written on card.
But I have no sense and I like it that way.
All because I stabbed my brain just the other day.
