a jeweled crown,
No tiaras here, only
burlap sacks of unused respect you wear on hips and under eyes; gravity doesn’t lie, here.
Wrinkles too, etched with rough charcoal truths;
it’s not pretty at dusk, under swirling gray clouds,
in shadows, alone.
Welcome to the Minotaur’s labyrinth,
wasted cubed objects of consumed passion;
as if you didn’t know.
But come near,
feel cold glass,
read my bloodless lips,
listen to yourself,