if i am singing "it's a sin," by pet shop boys,
i would say instead, it is a scam.
not a fall from grace, but a marketed stain.
a guilt you can purchase, then dance to on the radio.

the truth is not revealed, my love, it is remixed.
a 12-inch extended version for the club,
a radio edit for the drive to work.
to the rich, a bassline that confirms their rhythm;
to the poor, a synth hook promising a paradise they can never enter.
everyone buys the single.

we are all pet-shop boys and girls now,
curating our lives for the marketplace.
our charm is the leash, our charisma the product code.
we perform the ritual of “ever after” on a stage
lit by the cool blue light of a screen.

the happy ending is the easiest lie to sell.
it requires no revolution, only a quiet purchase.
it asks not for a changed world, but for a new sofa.
it is the final, brilliant scam,
to make the closing of a door sound like a hit song's final beat.

and love? love is the sample they stretch and loop
to cover the silence where truth used to be.
it is the trademarked slogan of the scam,
the bourgeois happy ending.
a beautiful, empty box, lovingly wrapped in a melody,
and sold back to us at the cost of our lives.