I remember when I told people I was morose they would say:
Why? You’re such a pretty girl

As if pretty is a medicine
As if pretty is perfection
As if pretty is an exception to the deterioration

More-so you look like you have it together
You must have an easy life.

Marilyn Monroe.
As generations question why the most beautiful woman in the world
Decided to lay in her hill top bed
To never wake again.
—I think I understood

Psychologist said she always felt alone
Unloved and disillusioned

The woman, still lusted for
Still craved for
Her image forever stamped to the
Idea of pretty is perfection
Disregard how she feels.

Norma Jeane
Being bounced back and forth
Between foster homes,
Spider webs out living any trace of a presence

Her mother
Bouncing back and forth from mental institutions
Like her grandparents before both perished in psych wards

“Pretty she was pretty”

The most admired, desired woman
In the world, who’s death was ruled as “probable suicide”
Probable as in she was immune to a collapse
Probable as in the “pretty” is a cure.

Monroe/ Monroy/ Morose

Being ‘pretty’ that everybody wants to be around you
But being so broken nobody wants to hold you.