Models are tens, are dressed to the nines,
Sneak away with photographers behind closed blinds.
Silhouettes pinch at the waist,
like the skin on their face, too tight to relax
From the surgeries made to look the same age
for the next decade or so,
And they don’t even know
What beautiful is.
They date boys in Camaros
Who get treated like pharaohs, but their crowns are too high and too heavy to hold,
So they fold
like the cards on the table as they gamble, they smoke.
And the women beside them, who let money define them
Laughing at every imbecile’s joke.