Blue Paper Skin

They hand you the blue paper skin,

a tie at the back, useless thin.

A chill goes through you,

the room too cold, the air too new.

It hangs, a curtain for what's bare,

leaving a draft, a current there.

Your own clothes folded, neat and small,

you are just waiting for the call.

The strings, they flutter, half undone,

no real protection from the sun

or eyes, or fear. Just cotton light,

a borrowed anonymity, white

and open to the world, you wait

for someone else to seal your fate.