Little miss perfect
    you are the worst kind of nihilist
with a body like a matchstick
and a soul
              made of plastic,
sleeping your way to a bed of social laurels
         your life is yet another story
of empty decadence
(The boys with their popped collars, always tending to their lacrosse shafts, sucking snow through their nose from your exposed midriff)
and cookie cutter morals {the next Miss America; parlor tricks and musical champagne glasses}

Sometimes I sit and wonder whether you will get tired of you're Gucci and flavored Vodka
when will you ever understand that Cancun isn't Mexico?
       I often think of you

during a terrible day

     looking as you sneer upon me

in an offhand way

and I imagine myself burning, tearing, eviscerating
all your little alligators
   your little men on their horses
               your JCREW, GAP, ABERCROMBIE
your mixed drinks, your pacardi, your cristal
                        your BMWs and your SUVs
and I smile
  a bitter
little
      smile