Coffin Couture
I wear black not for mourning,
but to match my fucking mood.
Painted lips like sin incarnate,
high heels built for a feud.
I strut past graves like it’s fashion week in the afterlife.
Corset tight like a secret you can’t admit out loud.
Smile like a guillotine, charm like a mushroom cloud.
Lace soaked in perfume and probable cause.
Coffin couture—darling, I slay funerals.
Eyeliner sharp, tongue even crueler.
I bring a eulogy and a shopping list,
and I never forget which is which.
I’ve kissed boys in crypts and danced on bones in halls.
My therapist quit session six, said, “Damn, you’re too enthralled.”
I took it as a compliment, then hexed him for fun.
I’ve dated ghosts with better conversation than the living.
Been married to misery twice, annulled by Thanksgiving.
Don’t confuse tragedy with taste—it’s not my fault I make it look good.
So bury me in stilettos, spray tan and snide remarks.
Give me death, but make it glam, with sequins in the dark.
‘Cause when I rise again, I’m charging for autographs.