Camera Cracks

She wants to turn on the camera.
Needs to turn on the camera.
Must not turn on the camera.
But feels compelled
to hide behind her mask
of peacock feathers and rage.
And dance,
dance for nameless, blameless faces,
who fill her up with money.
The closest thing to love she knows.
The girl with wild eyes is forced.
Forced to drown in bills and popular culture,
that won’t permit the existence
of wicked angels and feral lovelies.
We need our cherubs and angels
shaved, showered, dyed, and scented
with overpriced Victoria’s Secret products.
Otherwise, they might just start slipping
through
the
cracks.