A girl loves nothing more
than a good pair of jeans.
One that fits where it should
and falls where she wants.
Her favorites were black
like the gloves of the doctor
who filled the creases of her face
with Botox
to hide her history from the stares
of a crooning crowd.
She forgot her phone when she
went to the bathroom
so took mutilation of her legs
as entertainment
instead.
She wore those jeans for a weak
afterwards
and tried to smile
but her man-made cheeks
don’t move towards joy
anymore.
O, how beautiful they called her.
An eternal youth,
a nature belle.
How perfect her jeans hugged her hips
and stretched around her dips.
Truly
there was no room in her heart to love
anything other than
her jeans.
But I,
held in the chains of her
temporary love,
begged her to stay in this
world of art.
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