June 1952, Marilyn?
How does it feel to be the most
iconic sex symbol of all time?
“Becoming a sex symbol is becoming
a thing, I just don’t want to be a thing”
Marilyn, Marilyn, Marilyn. . .
Norma Jeane Baker;
The porcelain skin stretched tight over
your flushed pink muscles and ivory
bones is just what millions of women
would kill to have. Your bottled sunshine
blonde curls are something the awkward
natural dirty blondes would sell their
souls for. All of us girls have
our beauty marks just not always in
the most convenient places.
Your lips are two blushing
rose petals, kissed by
Joe DiMaggio, and
Arthur Miller to name a few.
Hey, “some like it hot”;
hot being a pale-skinned, red-lipped,
blonde-haired, hourglass girl.
Marilyn, your butterfly eyelashes
land on your rosy cheeks give you a
seven-year itch, one question -
What are the benefits to being
the number one sexiest woman in film
of all time, besides the fact that millions
of men drool and drop at your heels?
You say you don’t want
to be a thing -- what does being sexy
mean to you? You risk being
objectified, manipulated, and abused.
A man will leave you with a black and blue
heart, black teardrop-stained on a bathroom
floor, bones aching and stomach wretched.
You never asked to be beautiful
you never asked for you bones. . .
Maybe you didn’t need plastic surgery
or liposuction to be craved in limelight
You are our American doll.
People bend and twist your limbs in
impossible directions and you
mold to them, and for what?
To be sexy? To be that beautiful
limelight-stained blonde that you
wanted to be since you could walk? --
Go put your makeup on,
paint a mask for the masses.
Let the lace adorn your thighs like
butterfly wings but Marilyn --
you don’t need to have the
reputation of a red-hot sexy
actress, model, and singer to be
beautiful. You shouldn’t have taken
all of those barbiturates. . .
medication clouded your eyes. . .
it clouded your mind.
Wipe the excess mascara and lipstick
from your corpse,
let the moths cloud your eye sockets
like the drugs did. Stumble lifelessly
into that black coffin like clothes
in a suitcase. Blonde curls formed around
your precious skull, forever a picture
of the American doll.