it makes me sick
knowing
how many hearts,
broken.
so much weight,
dragging
it behind me
in a fake prada bag.
pound by pound,
falling down.
then the pack's
finished,
last puff — 
flick,
and i
don't have a
G O D D A M N
cent to my name.
so desperate,
clawing for change.
who wore it best?
you said you knew.
but you
don't have a
G O D D A M N
clue.