Fucked-Out Glimmer.

Fucked-Out Glimmer

by james bezerra

Mona Lisa smirk

and fuck-me boots.

Lipstick already a little smeared,

plastic black crucifix dangling absently.

Marlboro Red Bull breath,

the dirtiest of whispers.

A mess when you’re drunk

and you’re always a little.

You’d wiggle out of black skirt,

toss push-up bra into dark, kiss hard.

I loved your pitch black hair in the mornings

and dry raccoon eyes,

hang-over glare,

and fucked-out glimmer.

A water damaged Portrait of Madame X,

a sweaty dye-job Lady Godiva,

my own little Suicide Girl 
of fucked up makeup

and your objectively

and scientifically

and - no kiddingly -

perfects breasts

which I both miss

and still appreciate

even though I know

you’re only twenty minutes south of here

every night,

maybe on your back,

and I don’t want to know

so I just miss the girl

who made the memory -

who bit purple into my shoulder -

and otherwise

I just pretend you’re dead.

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