She is born into radiance, she is born into splendor, with a golden spoon in her rosy mouth. All of Heaven holds its breath when she inhales, and her first exhalation outside the womb blows out the fires of Hell, leaving smoldering coals of impossibility and bittersweet dreams on infernal tongues.
She grows as girls do, and the angels and demons appear in the quiet hours, in the blank spaces, liminal beings of shadow and starlight that guide her above cherubim backs to the outer rims of the cosmos. Girls with golden spoons taste moon dust like silver jelly. Girls with golden spoons scoop out the eyeballs of Mother Nature and use them as mobiles in their cribs. Girls with golden spoons, why, their tears are rainbows, and their fits are storms that become ravenous hurricanes.
Girls with golden spoons are blessed, but they are also cursed, for spirits demand much, and a spoon of bronze or a spoon of silver is just paean versus privilege. But golden spoons are from the heart of the sun, they flourish in a cosmic dance reflecting twirling neutrinos and colliding atoms. Golden spoons are nuclear, ticking time bombs, and they coat girl’s throats in rose petals until they drown in flowers.
She is all fire and water, all ice and flame, and to know her is to sashimi her lungs and sample them on a diamond platter. To drink her blood is to taste red champagne with hemoglobin bubbles – the fruit of strawberries etched in buttery resonance. Oh, how hell rides, oh, how heaven flies, oh, how golden spoon girls breathe like the cadence of falling rain and plie in tulle and satin.
They dance with golden spoons abreast falcon arms, and their legs are skyscrapers, and those golden girls are as dangerous as they are pure, as fragile as they are steel.
Golden spoon girls will make you or break you, and to love them is the Ballad of Marie Curie.
Carbon to gold in their goddess arms.