The Romanticized Star

Slinky, bright pink

bubble gum snapping

blond.

A head cocked back in

movie star laughter,

stained white laughter.

Leaning forward,

your designer sunglasses slide down your

purchased nose.

The toocoolforyou shades

quickly moved back.

Your trademark accessory,

or do you have world-fearing eyes,

deepdark eyes,

afraid of the burning light,

the scintillating light which sees right

through

you.

A porcelain hand emerges,

Barbie-pink nails,

now gliding through the

blondest of the blond.

My hand reflexively places itself

on my own hair,

and is caught up in curls,

a mass of auburn tangles.

My glance falls to the mirror

and my flawed self,

but my eyes prevail.

Bluegreen,

surrounded by cheap, ebony,

wet-n-wild lashes,

which can look straight at the world,

and not flinch.

Even without rose-tinted plastic.