by Onyx
Onyx is a rumor with lipstick for a pen. Their words haunt and mesmerize – a provocation or celebration, depending on who’s reading. What they can’t say out loud, they publish.
Content Warning: strong language
Serving Cunt
She quotes Nicki like scripture,
Walks like Shalom, runway’s rapture,
Lip-syncs pain like Judy post Oz,
Craves like Gaga fame and applause.
Dressed in Prada like the devil,
No one is ever on her level,
Eyebrows on fleek, contour so snatched,
She simply cannot be matched.
Raised on Britney and bitterness,
Her confidence is just surface,
To cope, another thirst trap reel,
Then fighting legions in platform heels.
Reads like Tyra, mothers like Ru,
But cries tears in royal blue,
Serves trauma in Mugler metal,
Vape in hand, dressed for battle.
Got ghosted by her Grindr prince,
Drowns in fizz, sinks in sequins,
Said he’s not gay, some dirty trick,
Yet he’d still want that disco stick.
But as the night conquers the day,
She reclaims her sparkle and her slay,
Arises from the glitter pile,
Struts with sass, a twink in style.
Reborn from chaos, no more shame,
Like a goddess, forged from flame,
You ache her presence, pure art,
A shimmer that lingers in your heart.
Crowned in flair, fierce and forever,
Unlike the norm, gender? Whatever.
Never silent, she’s bold and proud,
Teaches the world what cunt’s about.
Editor’s note: title censored with permission of the author.
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