the paparazzi say your name as if
theyre praying for the pretty virgin girl
laid on the altar as the knife is raised.
they say your name as if theyre summoning
some other creature that you might have been:
the sassy figure 8, sexy pin-up
iconic young celebrity, or just
woman with a body. woman with breasts.
they say your name, you freeze. a skeletal
white deer caught stranded in a midnight road,
a clockwork chinadoll long-winding down
the gears behind your eyes, hard grinding to
a halt. the grid of your face flickers, like
a failing neon sign. your posture shifts
and there you are, your pale charisma as
it slowly surfaces like venus from
the ice cold lake of your translucent skin,
with smile smooth as an expensive lipstick,
youre suddenly radiant, the shouting
shutter click and beep of digital lens,
the cameramen, they are your friends tonight,
and every one of them is calling out
youre beautiful! youre beautiful! though you
are frail, a wicker girl swaying in the wind
before the torch, a white star wreathed in light.
they're shouting, hey Brittany, youre beautiful!
even though you look like youre just moments
from your death, because you are, and you are.