We pry ourselves apart in cones
(yellow skirt-hems carefully shaped
into rows of repeating points,
damsels dressed to kill),
drawn to an edge far sharper
than we could ever hope to attain.
After all, we desire what we admire--
or is it the other way around?
The shiny silver gentlemen take our hands
and lead us through a dizzying dance,
stealing our carefully applied makeup
to paint on their skin as a trophy mark.
One final spin and we are cast aside,
fluttering delicately to the floor
like a fragile flock of tiny sparrows
buffeted by winter's cold ragings.
We suddenly find ourselves old,
mold-ridden skirts tattering
while our faces crumble apart.
They love us, we say. They do.
They won't let us die alone.
We collapse into dust.