Her hair was chemi-killed
With bleach and barbiturates.
It was dead, overcooked and dried.
The satin dress mixed with smiles
And could barely hide the death
It contained inside.
Fetal and floating in liquor,
Her name was a sit-com-oddity
Which took the pain away quicker.
On her knees, she tasted Fame as he came
Into her life and struck a deal;
“Fifty cents for your soul and a lifetime of numbing what you feel.”
The love was conditional and its contract
Quickly ran out with no renewal.
She covered it up and never let it out;
Laced it with cigarette smoke that encircled her guilt.
Capsizing her morals in a depression-bout.
The pills and wads of cash hung in the sky like the Hollywood sign;
Quickly silencing the child inside and making its watery eyes blind.
She was too afraid to even repeat the things they would say,
Looking up from hell’s heat, she twitched and began to decay.
The limelight warmed her face and burned a hole
In her heart, making room to replace the soul it stole.
Her love became plastic and her smiles were razor blades
Sorting and snorting, escaping to forget.
But the pain grew too strong. Ever revealing, it never fades.
Bleached to wash her innocence away,
Doped and sexed to numb;
Barbitu-rated to switch night with day
And to make the child dumb.
She collapsed under her secrets upon her bed;
Looking with her last breath on the city below,
She closed her eyes, to know she’d soon be dead.
Gasping for air, her last attempt to steal the show;
Celebrity and fake, her world existed only in her head.