"Fake" speaks loudly.
In bold,
declarative statements.
It's the faux fur,
covered in blood
before it hits the runway.
I'm made to believe my hands,
are stained red.
But my palms, are dry.
"Fake" holds the bucket, aloft
and pretends it's a purse.
Strut, *****
Work it, *****
...Ooh, yeah.
Work those angles.
Show me your best "victim" face,
and then strike a dramatic pose,
between the chalk outlines.
...I mistook you,
for something genuine,
something that's rare
and I let you chain your arms,
around my neck.
I hung you, close
to my heart,
and let you feel it, beat.
...But then, you oxidized,
and I am just way too olive-skinned,
for your particular shade,
of green.
I didn't recognize, or like
one of the two faces,
in the locket,
you left behind.
So I shrugged you off,
before you could stain my skin.
...I don't do "bargain bin."