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

James Dougherty

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.