high heels, apologies, and ex-models

high heels, lipstick,
the clicking of magnetic allure,
dazzling smile, dyed hair,
just what you’ve been looking for.

the tight clothes can hardly fit,
but you deem her good enough.
her beauty is slightly dull,
but enough to sell the papers.

pounds gain, pounds lost,
you wag your fingers at her blotchy face.
really, you – the epitome of male – muse, women are weak,
and you let her go without pay.

five years later, and you’re slumming
in your dingy apartment,
on the billboard, youngest CEO displays
your ex-model, a wide smile on her face.

mouths drop, apologies issued (and rejected),
and when Death swoops over like a shadow,
and you see her face once last time,
you realize that you have been the weak one,

all along.

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