Kneading breath and something that looks like dish water,
you serve air and platitudes from your square face that
I always thought was vacant.
Your jaw, so sharp,
it cuts my cheek when you pretend to kiss me in greeting.
Salutations to you.
With a hook tooth and narrow eyes and skin that shines
from too much cheap make up,
there is no warmth about you. No fire.
Your stare, as cold as the steel chatter of a wicked step-mother,
your eyes scalp me like a tin roof in a hurricane,
shaking the birds from their trees and sending earthworms underground.
You’re in my sights – my angle precise down to the breadth of a hair.
I never wanted it to be like this;
flying into firm and feathered webs,
so tangled in your own mess are you.
But understand this – idle time is the devil’s time
and the devil always bets on black.
You look at me, but you don’t see me.
You talk at me, but you don’t speak to me.
For it is no secret that you will always be the popular blonde
who came so close to her peak only to bottom out
believing your own spin and crowning your ego with a plastic tiara.
With your chipped scarlet nails and pilled hosiery,
is it little wonder why you cannot sleep?