[cento]

With jewelled fingers, she plaits her shins.
Skin embraced in dusty, patterned satin.
Her shoes are wrong; she looks extremely thin,
As her cocaine white face gleamed under the spotlight:
Chalkiness highlighted by bursts of flashes.

Give me adoration.

You saw a woman in a café, lips of crimson, yellow grin:
Discoloured, and drawn under her eyes, as sunken as buckets.
Note the dark half-moon of dirt beneath her nails,
As she nods her head in tune to her own breath,
In time with her own unconsciousness.

Give me brutal honesty.

In a success so huge and wholly farcical,
Hiding behind Aubergine Dreams and Porcelain Peach,
This is a screaming 'photo opportunity', just as ever.
We should lock her away,
Scrape the make-up off her skin.

Give me attention.

Disgusted, insecure, self-alienated
She swerves into solitude:
Mascara bleeds a blackened tear,
Coating her skin under a thin veil of sweat.
Her jewels are fake, like strange plastic organs.

Give me envy.

Smirking between dignified sips of her florescent
Peach and lime flavoured decorous daiquiri,
She knows it doesn't feel like a night out with
No one checking you out. Her sweetest voice
Intentionally sings the Siren's song:
I am asphyxiated with desire.

Give me malice.

Those ordinary girls, wearing supermarket clothes:
Their faces and feet burning with blood from tiredness.
Your shadow soaks onto their dry skin,
As you realise that this is the scent of
Dead skin on a linoleum floor.

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