Lady of Lipstick

Her heels click as she walks, ironically mimicking the spurs of the cowboy of old. Her grey poncho is a subliminal to the men that came before. But she is only a sad mimic of those proud heroes of the West. Her gun doesn’t rest on her hip; instead it’s folded compactly into her pink Gucci purse, waiting to unleash a torrent of texts intent on the total destruction of any who stand in the way of this lipstick slinging fashion billboard.
Women sing in fear of her vicious wrath, ruining reputations and relationships. She doesn’t see faces or people - only brands and styles. Her “friends,” if such a creature can have any, are merely enemies in Orange County sunglasses waiting to rip her from her throne of broken egos and become the Queen of the Damned.
At night before dreamless sleep takes her, a tear rolls down a temporarily make-up free cheek. The small shred of humanity she has left weeps like a child who can’t awaken from a recurring nightmare.