I am everything, she says to us,
her conceit feather-brush whipping against
our cheeks, and our smiles like piano cords
pulled a little taut because we know that she only tells the truth.
She bites her lips for paint – her walls are more ruby
than the rings in magazines and around her neck
she ties strips of velvet, different colours for
different months: her Romeos say she keeps them on
for their after-drinks love-making.
She will swallow nothing but Chardonnay, in the plastic Starbucks
mug that swings from her swan-beak fingertips wherever
she goes. In the park, she sings Mozart with lyrics
re-defined:

Oxygen, oxygen in ninety-nine green bottles,
I've slashed at them, slashed at them,
One more crack and I won't die.

And yet we know she's more alive in her broken heels
and her soft-as-razor-blades, train-track-buzzing heart
than those runway models with golden glows

(The director asked for her, but her smile was play-dough)
She sleep-talks fairytales and dream-walks like a river,
her toes curling at the concrete to keep her down on earth.
I am everything, she says to us,
And our agreement is stagnant green.