princess cut

porcelain mannequin swathed in

a ream of silk

kissed in an amethyst mist,

dipped in moonlight's milk,

pearls hug her wrist--

there it sits,

little vein where all the pain

hits

from the

gold-plated

switchblade,

shiny with her palm's sweat

tucked in a cashmere blanket.

not a princess is she,

but a pitiful wench

who cuts the sleeves of her dress

until her sheets, with red, drench

what a  m  e   s  s.

where does sorrow hide?

where in paradise does it reside?

rubies spill out her skin;

diamonds from her eyes!

how dare she lay in vain

and feign disdain

over a champagne migraine;

how can she not get it through her

pretty

little

brain

that she has everything and more,

ungrateful whore.

with no use of her mind

and no purpose to find

surely even the princess

will embrace

emptiness.