You would always buy me a scotch,
then squirm with embarrassment as I downed it in one.
You knew that my being an Aries female
meant I was never going to be your coveted "Barbie Doll" type.
But you took my heart anyway and owner-branded it
with your tyre tread, and mounted it on the wall
alongside your myriad of Grand Prix trophies.
But this one you crucified alive,
then averted your eyes while it bled to death.
In your highly innovative circles they never expected me to speak,
assuming the region between my ears a vacuum.
Then when their error slapped them in the face, you left me.
To this day, I still grapple with that paradox.
Did you ever really love me as you claimed?
Or was I no more than a photogenic media-magnet,
a mere sacrifice to the Gods of fame:
a dumb, diamond encrusted stepping-stone
to all you believe you are now?