diamonds are just broken glass

she’s the after-burn of secondhand smoke

in your laid-back midsummer nights--

the classic black and white film noir victim

in this scripted tragedy of good girl gone bad reality tv.

she’s the prinsesa in your hardcore punk music scene,

pole-dancing like a vintage tease

and stripping to the tune of rock and roll ballads

while drenched in tequila shots.

she’s the pretty little nymph in your wildest fantasies--

your dirty little secret broadcasted in a tabloid scandal exposè.

her innocence is alluring, her smile has a double-meaning

and you tattooed her name on your left shoulder blade—

an innuendo for disaster and a pseudonym for catastrophe.

she’s a car crash type of beautiful--

a hot mess in lace.

she sips sunsets in red plastic cups

and writes suicide notes in newsprints.

she’s the rain on a sunny day and

an eclipse on a wednesday night.

she wears a rosary around her neck

and sings psalms before she sleeps.

she kisses teddy bears goodnight

and throws a tantrum before

she takes her medication.

she thinks there’s a conspiracy in psychology

and the music she listens to has subliminal messages.

she wonders why there’s a pyramid on a dollar bill

and why no one can escape this rabbit hole alive.

diamonds are just broken glass, anyway.