Saturday, July 9, 2011

The devil Sells Prada





she gave her red heart to that red devil
just to
walk in shoes with red bottoms
pretending she had wings given by God
angelic
flying first class
to destinations she couldn’t spell or pronounce
but the landscape would make a great twitpic
maybe gain her another follower

she is living for the wrong things
living for things
not for the feelings or the memories or what the world has to offer
never thinking of what she could give to the world
never thinking
living lonely
always surrounded by people
people that don’t love her, people she pretends to love
people that don’t need her, and people she needs
to upkeep the persona she has created in order to have these people around her
to validate her presence on earth
poor chile…
that she has sitting at home with her mama
while she chases her dreams and illusions of grandeur
and all the rest of the bull that can fit inside her dream seller’s mouth
making the tip of his manhood her key to the top
of nowhere
a price she is willing to pay
a price that she has continuously paid
as she lets these guys run trains
of scams all through her
no buyer’s insurance
just the assurance of the comfort these empty promises give her
empty words
empty hearts
an empty education savings account for the daughter
she will have walk in her footsteps
teaching that the highest point of success is being the baddest chick on a  D-Boy’s arm
or rather a “producer/rapper/business owner”
let him tell it
is all she ever does

she sketches out her future in her mind
uses the lies they tell as her blueprint
if all else fails she can work her way up to a ballplayer
write a tell-all 
after she leaves him and takes half when she finds out what she already knew
she titles her book “#winning” 
poor chile…
that she envisions in her mind
never relying on Plan B, because that would ruin her chances of getting that jackpot fetus she so desires
so she sticks to plan A 
emergency conception

she sees her name written in the stars
on the Walk of Fame
known for her role as a Real Housewife 
a role she set out for when she decided being “basic” wasn’t good enough
fixing her hair in the bathroom of another hotel room that she has to leave before his wife comes banging on the door screaming she knows another one has jumped on him
a jump off
swearing up and down she is not like the rest
flying above it all
not realizing that she is identical to the description of the Prodigal Son
lost and away from home
eating and lying with pigs
rising with no more fortune than a crumpled up piece of paper she got in a cookie

a lifetime of gambling her soul 
auctioning her self-worth to the highest bidder
until no more number cards are raised
no one there to claim her
she’s no longer considered vintage goods
just trash
decomposing in her designer wear
tasteless to vultures
she picks herself up
reaches into her Birkin bag
for a new hustle
decides to renew her contract with the red devil
making sure to stay far from his flame
she’s smart enough to know plastic melts
signing her name on the dotted line
this time to walk in a pair of red McQueens
poor, poor chile…