Paper Skin

The letter came. A date. A time.

Another clinic, another climb

onto that paper-covered bed.

The gown. Pale blue, barely threads

holding it together. A cheap disguise.

You shed your clothes, your flimsy lies,

your dignity, right there.

Just pale skin. A fragile stare.

Ties at the back you can't quite reach.

Another part of you they breach,

with clumsy questions, cold machine.

Reduced. To what you've always been

under the gloss. Just human meat.

The fabric thin, the feeling bittersweet.

Like all the glamour's been rubbed off.

Leaving only a cough, a shiver, a scoff

at the body's fragile frame.

Another number, another name.