You are not a narrative,
not prepared, not braced
save for your teeth.
Your eyes, surrounded by
shields of glass have their
quotas of emigrate emotion
to fill like morning mugs,
so they're seldom gone
from their post upon the
crossing bridge of your nose.
Your eyes, with their Chernobyl centers,
like candied apples with caramel lace,
blanketed with coldness and a
cunning vision glaring from the pupil
with a sparkle smirk.
Your cheeks are, like you, high and haughty,
bones pressing against the cream of your face
like a lover needing release from these
non-consensual bonds.

You seem to have a thing for blondes
and non-committed things: shrugs and loves.
Your podium skirt, your pedestal boots
do little to solidify. You are sly liquid
slipping between mental cracks
and broken minds like Eden's serpent infestation.
You're the breaker of greater paradises.
You revise the despised accent to suit
you like a tailor, a censor, black bars
going lengthwise across your chest
when you wear that dress
and vertically in your future.
Get used to grey.

You're a marker, standing tall like a tombstone,
dates written in sharpie, a conviction epitaph
from your days of being corrected
by greater minds you accept like false diplomas.
A crimson bracelet once twinkled
around your wrist, or so you say
with your eyes. You think you've died
before, once more to live.
Maybe once you were someone worth a ****,
before you turned into prom incarnations.
You seem to think that, like the wine
your daddy bought you, you have a kick,
and even though you're all leg, your
thighs were never good enough for you
and maybe you show them off too much.

Like a hotel, you try to accommodate
other souls within you, a biome,
but there's only vacancy inside your heart
and that's the pool with the broken filter.
Your sign mouth, neon lips all aglow
promote you and your greater
philosophical concepts written
from eight thirty to eleven
on notebook pages and margins.