You are beautiful. Yet sometimes I look at you and I see your skull beneath your flesh, your smile the ivory evidence with which you grace your adoring bootlickers.
You’re a crime waiting to be committed.
You are a star. Not only in my mind, but in the real world. I’m loathe to question what I did to deserve the favour of your regard.
You’re a scandal of obliviousness.
You are a thief of hearts, a plucker-out of eyes. You’re a weakener of knees. You don’t care that I care that you’ll take any one of them at the pop of a button.
You’re a violation of trust.
You are beautiful. You use it like a weapon to perforate the thin skin of those who dissolve in the devastation of your gifts.
You’re an injustice of nature.
In your artistry I see the wickedness of your self-loathing. I see your skull, white as the lights which sustain your ego. In those who bow to you I see your vulnerability.
You’re a consequence of disarming riches.
You are beautiful. As you ascend to the stage, your presence larger than any man can hope to command, you destroy me again and again.