drunk butterfly

Your preoccupation with my weight was popular,
I played into your
Dirty American tabloid —
You sold me on it.
I begged you for more
Like a junkie —
Hunger consumed me all day.
Your diatribe, so succinct and refined
I felt like the muse of your fairy tale.
Perfection
In a fabled land constructed by you
Is futile.
Still I wore your clothes
Your hair —
Your voice,
Your smell.
I even wrote your music for you —
And lost the only thing that made me unique
Myself.