You write him love letters:
"I love you Justin, I love you Justin, I love you Justin,
I love you Justin, I love you Justin, I love you Justin,
and by the way,
I love you Justin."

You poor, pathetic little girl.
He probably has people to sift through that shit
and toss it in the steaming, heaping piles
of all the other shit just like it.
You poor, pathetic little girl.

You watch his video;
You gaze longingly into each other's eyes
like two soulmates on a golden-lit beach at sunset,
and breathe eachother in.
He films his video;
He shoots his dreamy killer harpoon stares
that pierce the camera lense
and transcend TV to reach you,
in your living room, underwater.
From a distance,
he strips you of your money and innocence,
like the abusive boyfriend you're blinded by,
or the seemingly harmless, viperous rapist
in the empty parking lot.
You poor, victimized, abused little girl.

You watch him from the front row,
singing and dancing onstage (look at those moves!), and
just for a moment -- just for one moment,
he looks directly at you,
and smiles.
You nearly faint.
He loves his fans.

He dances and struts onstage
and throws his arms wide:
Moses parting the red sea.
He stares right at you,
inspecting one of his healthy sheep,
and with a look,
shears the money you grow off your back.
Then he raises his eyes,
and his body preaches to his flock
of ten thousand more.
He is Shepherd.
He is Master.
He is God.

He is Justin Timberlake.

You poor, pathetic, victimized, abused, enslaved little girl.
(...or so I write, as I scramble to hide the magazine I
bought the other day with Justin Timberlake on the
cover [There's a good article in there, really!], and quickly
close the folder with the 12 Justin Timberlake pictures
I downloaded that I clearly needed as necessary
reference material for writing this poem).