Bleached Bitch

It’s time to go

full motherfucking Hawthorne

on the one who knows

what she did, highlight the contrast

between the hatred inside

and her public face

(the one that allowed her to pose

as a forty-year-old ingenue, strapless

with inferior shoulders

that can’t carry a scarf

with any sex appeal

whatsoever)

Saccharine. Causes cancer

in everything from lab rats

to Tab-sipping socialites

serenaded by SAEs, KAs, and Delta Tau Deltas—

alphas all,

Zetas too close to the edge

of wild freedom

untethered to Greek letters

(Phi Delta Sigmas shamed in a field),

independents are the scariest people on the planet, refusing to trade maybe for gravy boats in matching patterns

Children are just collateral damage

(for butt-hurt, barren bitches braying betrayal,

born of ballistic fantasies, missles of malicious mass-murder masquerading as maligned misdemeanors),

grandchildren gravy for the boat on a table of larceny

Two faces: false, forward-facing facade feeding fucked-up fantasies, fallacies forced four-square into the public record.

Customs Houses have more gables than glorified Golidilocks

playing victim

on her way out of the salon.

My scarlet letter

is indelible.

Bring a sweater

when you climb the scaffolding

into the frigid wind of

false moral high ground.