A Letter to Camille Vasquez, Signed Not-Amber Heard
I see the way you look at him…

I saw you touch him. I saw you running, desperate to say your goodbyes to him; your shiny, dark-brown hair bouncing with its soft curl and hazel highlights; your simple, natural-toned makeup. A face that’s relatable, an every-woman, but capable of much more given the right palette.
I see you!
You have your 2 weeks of fame. Your brief spotlight; your moment in the sun.
I’ve drunk the $800.00 bottles of wine. I’ve been gifted the pony, travelled the world, shopped in Milan — all on his dime. I’ve made love to him.
I had him when he was fresh, unpickled and ripe; when the money flowed with no end in sight. You’re welcome to claim his bloated corpse as the Hollywood curtain falls and the sun sets on he who once was.
But you can’t have me! You can’t beat me. You can’t out pantsuit me!
As I have called pirates to rocky shores, sinking their souls and claiming their treasure, you too will follow.
You may coax a snarling look, a brief moment of contempt worn across my face, but that’s all you’ll get from me.
Your clever tricks, showing bruise-and-cut-free pictures taken the day after J.D. attacked me, showing the knife I bought for a man I say scares me, playing audio recordings professing (confessing?) physical abuse by my hands, are not enough.
Don’t forget, there are 10 men on this jury and I am me. I am she with a gift; a gift that sees into the minds of men and instructs them. A face nature sculpted to the exact proportions that make a marionette of any man who sees me.
Your power is evidence. My power is me!
signed,
All the boys love Not-Amber-Heard
Disclaimer: the above piece is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only.
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