nyc. neon heart. day glo eyes. city lit by fire flies. black hair. black eyes. tan skin. model, but not model citizen. five six or seven. lives in heels. tsubi jeans. waxed legs. fake smile. catwalk makeup. plastic money. plastic life.
italian. japanese. not too amazing. told she’d make it big. your gorgeous face. your lean shape. come with us. we’ll make you big. okay she did. and was she big? yes, shes huge. shes a supermodel. its not processed. but you see her everywhere. at least across seas. shes everything you want to be. you want her life. you want her clothes. you want her looks. you want her money. you want her fame. you want those miumiu sunglasses she slips over her gorgeous, huge, inky black eyes when she goes out spending unmentionable amounts of money on things priced unmentionable prices. you want to get let in to those hott discos and clubs she goes. sorry. you cant have it. its hers. youll never be like her. shes the girl in the chanel boots who rushed past you, animatedly speaking italian or japanese into her cell phone. who you looked back on and thought “i want to be her. i want her life. i want everything she has.” funny thing. behind the flashing lights and marni purses, its not so nice. something that, if you saw, you wouldn’t daydream about having. if you had it, you wouldn’t think you were so lucky, after all . . .
