Bleach headed ballerinas flick lighters as they stand on the edge of the world. The smokes hanging off their cherry red lips look sad and used as they frown at their lot in life. They’re pampered dolls that the men of the world get on bended knee just to sniff the waves of perfume that drift off their show hardened bodies. They cackle and jaw to one another, promising a future sitting atop of throne of lies, wealth and broken promises. They build one another up, and tear one another down within a paragraph of conversation.
Between the black lines of ink between them, they slither in and out of what each other wants, and they find ways to crush it with a pretty smile. There are no friends in the war zone, and without someone’s hand to hold; no one knows the killer is wearing heels.
With flair they dramatically ask for the world handed to them with a platinum bow, and a bottle of the top most shelf. Without the status and the keys to the car that goes vroom faster and louder than all the rest, they’ll be trapped here with the rest of us. They don’t want that, and never did.
They dreamt of running away from those days of their father’s pasts, the working class life without much fanfare, and mother in the kitchen telling them they were something special. Run away into the arms of something or someone, whichever came first. Little girls trapped in the female form, scared to sleep alone and without everything they ever wanted. They smile at the shadows of men who pass them and cower as they see the venom in their eyes. They continue to pull cheap drags off discount cigarettes, and take empty slurps from glasses that feature nothing but melting ice, having the booze melt long ago.
They won’t pay for a drink. Someone is bound to come along.