her birthday-candle flames are stomped out
by the jackal of a realised, real-life man
(insane? no, he's mad)
and her carbon copy - with minor additions
joined together in an ecclesiastically-approved
state of perpetual call-and-response
reaching hysteria, climatic shock, and reprise
enabled only by their complete
lack of dimorphic monstrosity
that labels her as God's mistake
and those others as "baby".

yes, the edited, the revised, the marked-up
version of herself, the two-point-oh.
and of course, the real insanity
would lie in creating such a monster in the first place.