If I wanted to be exquisite,
I would be.
Hormones were not kind to me,
But I survived.
And here I sit,
Cross-legged and with nothing to fit
Into.
My black shoes were a choice,
And I am responsible for the death
Of an overworked, underpaid
Laborer
With red raw fingers.
But I do not see her.
No, I see only the luminescence of a store window,
Years ago.
I feel only the faint yearning to be known
As sleek-vicious-jaded,
Gone now.
But the shoes still fitting,
Lined with gold.
When I grow old I will
Break my bones
Building her casket,
Lined with silver
As are my ashes.