Hipbones On Magazine Covers

Last night you sunk to your knees
in a pantomime of worship,
gagged on questions, uncertainties,
and two fingers shoved down a throat in haste,
choking to relieve the pressure of sustenance
in a stomach trained to subsist on lies.
In the morning his camera will snap photos
of your vacant gaze and man-sculpted figure,
and designers' silk fabric will hide razor-kissed flesh
stretched taut over weakening bones.

You bought the lies the television sold,
never knew the truth behind society's game,
but you learned to play
and you fought to win.
What would they say if they knew
their champion kneels before porcelain alters?

Your glassy eyes stare out from covers
of Cosmo and Vanity Fair,
the star of a million glossy commercial ads,
and we'll never know how much of you
came in a bottle,
so we buy the pills,
the cosmetics
your paper doll cut-out sold.
Faithful followers of your ascetic religion,
we don long sleeves
because this is what you reduced us to:
hipbones and magazine covers.