Your masquera outlines the era of the mask,
the generation of the generic.
Laying down foundation for fake faces
and brainless taste in
post-modern couture creation.
Sex sells and money is safe haven,
so you bathe in the shallow end
of misogynistic eyes,
making sure your thighs
are just as smooth as your lies.
Your caramel-covered curves cut caves
into the helpless hearts of half-witted men.
You have them hoping they stand a chance,
and with every glance you lead the weak to peril.
You’re a tease,
but more to yourself than others.
You seek the affection of those who despise you
yet don’t recognize those who give you attention.
Life is cruel and you feel it.
So cover yourself in everyone’s fantasy
until even the sharp-minded can’t see
that you still sport a costume
even when you’re naked.
Now your body is public
and your mind is vacant.
You think with your eyes
and you threw away your heart
because it weighs too much
and your stomach is already starved.
Another layer of make-up
to make up for your empty soul,
because you sold that one for
designer shoes and a fur coat to fight the cold.
The era of empty shells,
The age of ageless skin,
You are perfection to the naked eye,
but a just mannequin within.