A Hot Mess
You see, she used to be popular.
We used to envy Barbie, but now
they call her ‘B’ on the streets,
and she chases that dirty dragon
through grunge of the City of Angels.
Her hair, once wispy platinum
and soft is now dry and broken,
smelling of stale cigarettes… her skin
once had a certain sun-kissed glow,
but now it’s cracked
and peppered with blemishes,
bruises, tracks, and scars.
Her scaly hands clutch
the pack of Marlboros
as if it was all she had left.
We heard her custom convertible
ended up in a mangled pink mess
after a 48-hour binge… she destroyed
that exquisite dream house
in Malibu, and her designer threads
now rest on the bodies
of drug lords and their whores.
I guess she sold them
to pay her debts, to set
her veins on fire, to cloud
her mind – all in an attempt
to escape the pain
of the plastic life she
so carefully crafted.