Losing the Feeling of Lost

This is for a competition with the theme "Future hopes; future fears." Please help me get this perfect. Seriously. I don't usually stick my poems in blogs but...whatever. I need as much input as possible. Thank you!

Rubbing my hands of invisible body fluids
like Lady Macbeth, I step gracelessly into
The Halls of Time.

Washed clean, skin pale green
under the wincing stark
light bulbs, hanging stubbornly

in the brisk, thick air of
wet April. My breath catches
teardrops as

the spiders’ web catches
flies and wraps them in a cocoon
to protect and kill, kill, kill.

The gleaming tin soldiers-
breaking their nightly solder with
the prison guards' -

They look all the same.
The same course, brute face that
reeks of carbolic soap and

sour justice. They line the hall walls-
a metallic wallpaper that never allows
anyone forget their existence.

My robes a virginal, deathly white,
stained periodically with spots of
blood. My hair burning with all the

sin of a thousand lechers. Does
my light frighten you? Neither did I
think that I shall glow like a

cracked candle flame in the
sullen summer breeze.
My god, my god, who made such

a draughty hall so hot? The warm air stirs
as if sweet lunatics were swirling
hot caramels to punish the Watergate scandal.

The scenery of tables laden with half-eaten feasts
and half-corroded cadavers flow like
water over my head.

Flies, flies swarm the breathless air
like radioactive gas particles. Burning all
night like Vergeltungswaffe rocketships

blasting into outer space and
blitzing the comet dust. What a difference
a little polish makes.

My eyes cannot see through the antimony
dirt I smeared on my lashes. The mask of
beauty holds far better

than any form of hiding. The book, the book
that sits vacantly pretty on the
ornate, ormolu stand.

Gilded in authentic embroidered
silken threads of beautiful
precious metals;

some may say it is a marvel,
some say it is a celebration
in true blue form.

Am I the only one who does not
give it petty titles of
Bible and Koran?

No scriptures, no source of telling
lies. It is the book of Fortuna.
I have to see what she has

told of my future. I cannot wait
until the crack of blackness
when I reach twenty.

I doubt I shall reach that age
anyway. What will become
of my name?

Will it exist after all? Shall I see
foreign lands and salacious
wars, wars, wars?

What shall become of me?
A mother? A lover? A suicidal
heroine like no other?

No, do not tell me everything is in
the surprise. I damn surprises.
They give me headaches

like sleeping, sleeping, sleeping
dulls the thick air that threatens
to coax me into a straight jacket

or a casket. Do tell, do tell.
Do not forget a detail,
I want to know it all.

Do not show me the bigger picture.
The ghastly oil painting of
Human Nature

makes me retch with
hatred, boiling the hydrochloric
acid that abides in my

lungs. Bloody hand!
Why hold back my own
fairystory?

Do not accept, do not delete.
The sweet, etherising scent
of elderflowers

taint the gaseous sludge.
Fainting is an alibi
for the fearsome denial.

No more petticoats of lies and
dreams, dear. Show me the light
of the surgeons scalpel

as they hack into my skull.
Show me the pictures of the
dead students at the

college. He may have committed the
act but I thought it before.
Everything is a déja vu

to me, the trust is twisted
in my sanity and the same old
love long lost.