Disillusioned

in high heels grinding out freedom
on the south side of suburbia

we remember the lost stars

and wonder if we're just faking,
or if our souls have curled up 
in the night and relinquished

 their heartbeats to the sound
of the storms of traffic.

Cultural obsessions hold bottles
of vodka, wishing they could feel
the bacterial cultures bunching 
in their battered chests.
Hyper but flaccid 
we slump behind screens 
and pour out missives in broken english
pushing keys into our fingers 
slip sliding into madness 
and sadness, and when we die,
we do it for the lulz.