Kill Me in Gucci
She stretched on a bed of influencer roses, the petals fake,
the fragrance cold as glass,
A thousand eyes flickered in the phone—her casket built from every
like amassed.Gold-plated pill bottles lined the nightstand,
monogrammed for every vice,
Each capsule chasing something emptier,
beauty bartered for a colder price.Her boots cost more than truth,
her laughter piped in like a pop song loop,
Satin sheets cocoon the corpse of innocence,
stitched tight by the hands of her private group.The windows
of her suite never opened, air perfumed and dense with dust,
Outside, city shadows gathered, hungry for a girl who never learned distrust.
She rehearsed her own collapse, each bruise applied in delicate couture,
Pain was currency, grief a brand,
tragedy a pastime she could endure.The mirror framed her—flawless, fractured,
haloed in LED light,
She posted another empty prayer,
mascara streaking in calculated spite.There was a scream behind the shimmer,
drowned in perfume and cocaine haze,
She tagged designers in her last confession,
desperate for that algorithmic praise.The soul, on lease since puberty,
danced for sponsors, sold on spec,
Her smile the watermark of hunger, lips forming secrets she could not check.
Kill me in Gucci, she begged the world with ruby-glossed, trembling lips,
If there’s no love, let there be envy—let my death be sealed with clicks
and tips.Let no blood stain the marble floor, let the casket match my thighs,
Polish the bones, filter the flesh,
let my decay be an enterprise.She wanted elegance in the end,
a silence shrouded in branded lace,
To be remembered not for kindness,
but for the way gold lighted her face.The crowd would mourn with hashtags,
digital wreaths by the velvet rope,
While mothers outside sweep the ashes, and every rich girl copes.
Beauty was a fever—every flaw erased with a surgeon’s touch,
She bought new faces, new desires,
but found they never cost enough.Each friend was an investor,
each lover a loan—no one paid with soul or skin,
She overdosed on attention, but nothing broke through to what’s within.No
priest at the bedside, just PR men arranging flowers for the press,
No father at the funeral, just a sea of lenses, all angling for her best.In the end,
the only inheritance was a closet full of sins—Scarves reeking of secrets,
jewelry bought from the devil grins.
She bought peace in little packets,
tucked beneath designer sheets,Each dose a sacrament of numbness,
every swallow a velvet defeat.The world applauded her emptiness,
the headlines polished her decay,“Too beautiful to suffer,” they lied—then sold her ghost on eBay.When the gold flakes fall and the lips turn blue, the followers will come and go,But no
one will ask about the hollow, the darkness they helped grow.So, kill her in Gucci,
let the lilies match her branded pain—Death, at least, will love her real,
and wash away the shame.