Models are tens, are dressed to the nines,

Sneak away with photographers behind closed blinds.

Silhouettes pinch at the waist,

like the skin on their face, too tight to relax 

From the surgeries made to look the same age 

for the next decade or so,

And they don’t even know

What beautiful is. 

They date boys in Camaros

Who get treated like pharaohs, but their crowns are too high and too heavy to hold,

So they fold 

like the cards on the table as they gamble, they smoke. 

And the women beside them, who let money define them

Laughing at every imbecile’s joke.