of empty cups and broken hearts,
tear-stained in the ballroom before the cello starts,
lament slicing nothing like a knife in the dark,
masking the empty she wears like a cloak,
and the seconds that fell from her lips as she spoke,
erasing the perfect she lost when she woke.
Her black satin gown is torn at the hem,
she keeps yanking it back, but her strap slips again.
Obsidian streaks riot on porcelain skin.
Mussed hair and smeared lipstick;
she should have known better,
born as she was for champagne and glitter,
wrong turn; now she’s drowning in cheap wine and gutter.
Lonely and listless, she lurks in the dark, heart simmering in shadow as the orchestra starts,
she drains every cup and she snaps every heart,