Lipstick smeared across your mouth has never looked so pretty.
Feet chained to a balcony that overlooks the city.
Holes form in your dress beneath midnight's swirling violet haze,
but misery is colorblind on most irreverent days.
We always want the overcast
of diamond-studded mist,
the coffin lined with velvet, pearls,
and shackles on our wrists.
We're curling blood-soaked eyelashes
as vanity insists,
urging burlesque tragedies to
distract from what we've missed.
Smoke sifts through the railing from cigarettes like illusions.
Detriment is glamour with your face veiled by contusions.
Still you welcome anyone who will fill that void with gore.
Makeup is as useless as throwing glitter on a whore.