white house secretary karoline leavitt
she stands at the podium
smiling that kind of smile
you only learn after
too many mirrors and not enough truth.
every word that leaves her mouth
sounds like a coin dropping in a machine
that’s already broken.
she waves her hand
like she’s swatting away
the stink of her own sentences—
but the air just thickens,
and the room begins to choke.
you can’t actually believe it,
can you, sweetheart?
those polished lies,
those press-release fairy tales
made from the bones of the poor—
you sell them like perfume
and call it patriotism.
I’ve seen hustlers with more honesty
in a bar at closing time,
men bleeding truth into their beers
while she stands there
selling corruption
like it’s the latest fashion
out of D.C. culture.
she talks about freedom
with the leash in her hand,
about honor
with both palms dirty.
and still—
some fools will clap,
because the light hits her just right,
because the lie sounds better
than the life they’re living.
but the rest of us,
the ones down here
with cracked knuckles and rent due,
we know a con when we see one—
and hers reeks
of the White House carpet
and the devil’s perfume.
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