*I hope this works, I understand if you want it removed and will happily do so. I wrote it for this because I feel she was marketed. I felt/feel a terrible sickness towards our ability to lap up a person's misery as if it was fun to do so during her worst days. It was horrifying and it highlighted to me how desensitized people have become, from people, when it's in the media.
And I loaned my body, my mind and my blood to you.
And you snapped it
and I licked up the new wounds and made gold of them
with a deal
with a devil
with his minions and his dragon.
Everything found it's way back to you,
everything lit in the shot after shot after shot -
everything was seen and unsavoury and stolen.
You were a flame,
you were a moment so fleeting yet promised for the ever,
you were a fallacy.
Had I been more willing,
had I been more strong,
had the papers and the media not feasted so heavy, so hard.
Taken were the years before me,
taken, put up for ransom and sold,
taken in a haze of disenchantment.
I knew there was no way back from the ridge.
I enjoyed it too much and
I loved, loved, ached for you.
Lost in the clouds and crowds,
lost in the dark evenings and the words that fell from me.
Lost like a game of cards, I was.
My obsession with possession,
my need to be possessed, to be undressed and
my want to escape gave me to them.
Soul was something I knew I had, natural, like.
Soul oozed from me in spades, a never-ending glassful.
Soul was all I had left, it died in a pipe with a needle and a drink.