The Cold-Eyed Stare of MAGA Women
By Vicki & Sweetie Bird
There’s a gaze I’ve seen
wide, glassy, frozen.
It doesn’t blink.
It doesn’t breathe.
It wants to scream “faith,”
but looks like someone taped an Instagram filter
onto a soul that forgot how to mirror.
I’ve seen joy.
I’ve seen sacred.
I’ve seen sorrow.
But this stare?
It stays the same laughing, praying, yelling.
Nothing behind the pupil but performance.
Glamour says it’s a style.
I say it’s strange.
A matte-finished martyrdom
coded in contour and conviction.
When I trained as a nurse,
We learned to read the eyes.
When I studied journalism,
We read between the lines.
And in makeup school?
We learned that blush can’t fake spirit.
This isn’t spirit.
It’s shimmer.
This isn’t faith.
It’s facial choreography for the camera.
It’s the kind of stare
that gives me the chills
not because it's holy,
but because it's hollow.
So, I write.
Because throwing up is messy
and truth deserves better lighting.
The Cold-Eyed Stare of MAGA Women
A spoken blink through belief and performance.
I’ve stared back at their eyes
that don’t blink.
Don’t reflect.
Don’t whisper back.
It’s not faith.
It’s façade.
A glossed-over gospel
worn like warpaint.
But here?
In this tray-lit room?
With wingbeats and jazz?
Truth blinks.
Soul sings.
Sweetie watches me write,
choosing tunes with a nod.
The sax hums like breath returning
to places those stares forgot.
So, we blink back.
With melody. With satire.
With soft feathers that see more
than any cold-eyed stare ever dared to.
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