Faux Fur.

Sky-high eyebrows and neon lights.

You can’t see the rain through a painted window.

No one ever asks you if you can, anyway. They assume you do.

And the rouge on their cheeks keeps getting pinker

Their laughter sounding more pretentious

But it can’t be proven because no one is around to hear it.

That’s what you’re about, anyway.

Diamonds on their tits like you’re a million-dollar baby.

And maybe you are, over in the brooding corner.

Life of the party.

Your lips plastered to their putrid behinds as they bat their lashes; it’s the hymn that you worship with.

But how can you sing to the skies and the heavens if you've never seen the rain?