(if you are) the chosen ones (then i question the choosers)

embalmed as you are in lip gloss,
vodka and gastric juices (because you are known
for regurgitating more than half-truths)
with your layers of gold body dust
exquisite cloth
and glitter,

armed to the bleached teeth
with talons and tall tales
and subtle knife-eyes deflecting wounds
inflicted by rumors and rape,
by underage sex and the tribulations
that come with learning to launder money
with clothes and reputations
(never forgetting
that white lies should be washed in scalding water
and never mixed with colors
or hearts that bleed)–

stalking across catwalks and silver screens,
you are more mythical than gods:
every bit as megalomaniacal
as powerful,
as useless.


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