You don’t need to put on that make-up
or put up your hair
shower in perfume
or throw on those shoes…

you’re beautiful just the way you are.

Drunk, tripping on those pills, those heels.
Screaming at the cabbie just because he’s Armenian.
Spilling red wine all over a white carpet and screaming,
“Fuck it! Looks better red!”
Clawing at the screen door
because I locked you on the balcony.

You’re beautiful just the way you are.

Madness in a smile.
Silent with the scissors.
Dark bedroom,
you with ice-pick.

So beautiful,
you big bag of broken jumble
nutcracker in the nuthouse
house of cards in a gale
dressed up like a sunny day
(screaming rape)
you wound up, hopped up
doped up
lovely flower and
belligerent fuck.

So I suppose
it’s okay that you smashed my TV
with my stereo
and that you tried to kill me
in my sleep
because you had a bad dream
and thought that I was
your father.

And it’s okay that you
cry after sex
carry stuffed animals around
everywhere you go
(Tigger, Snappy and Mr. Truffles!)
and cut your wrists to Nine Inch Nails albums
while squealing with delight.

It’s all okay,
you long-legged maniac,
you cartoon insane (boing! boing!)
scathing hot sight
it’s okay that you’re crazy
(in every way, Baby)
As long as you’re attractive,
Right?

Right?