Those Nasty Five-Pointed Things

She has stars in her heart when they should be in her eyes---
spiteful stars that poke and slash her very insides
every time she falls lovesick and passes an afternoon with sighs,
whispering her regretful 'why?'s and cursing men's lies.

Something about her is broken, all shattered into five-pointed pieces,
layered into tiny mirrored mountains painted by cruel artistes
who sight sick beauty in all they've created as master sadists.

Stars are only pretty---I say, stars are only pretty---pinned up in the skies.