they are the golden ones
the mirages that glitter
at me from the slender
shiny pages
stretched out over empty
streets and perfect places

they make my bra feel loose
and bunchy as if it were on backwards
and my skin is never as tight
as it ought to be and the rags
that attempt to cover it
are always too much so

as if no amount of clothing
will ever be enough
no matter how much flesh is bare