I wrote your name in a crossword.
You were 12th down
and crossed over the answers for
the opposite to chaos
and a word to describe messy.
You never knew how to fold
your drama neatly, or put away
So, I clipped your stories
out of the tabloids, and pressed them
into flashbulb iron boards.
The paparazzi never caught your good side,
but they found you on every morning after stroll,
and every uneven cut from your mouth.
I tried to iron out your wrinkle crease fame,
but it was apparent the young woman soul
had chosen botox and plastic smiles.
You never knew how to be
without attention and extravagance.