Once upon a time she could have been a model;
now formerly slender limbs are paper thin and
bruised a brownish-purple, showing off her
spider web veins, threadbare and tired from overuse.
Her chapped lips glossed over in lustrous crimson balm,
her hair dyed, and fluffed into a cascade of sexy curls,
she lounges on street corners, pouting at cars and
chewing dying cigarette butts, as her arms pimple in the cold,
whilst too-tight skirt and see through shirt flaunt her gaunt,
anorexic-thin body; her heels ache in strappy shoes, and she
flicks her finger up at scraggy boys and menial cat calls, then
leans against scraping wall and waits nonchalantly for next client;
she played her fairytale backwards and went missing in the storm,
(now lost naivety begs remembrance but) she'd rather forget old dreams.