She’s the clean sheet
of paper skin, unharmed
where fingers can only trace purity

But what about the rest of us
with the dirt under our nails
and hearts left un-mended
behind lowered eyes?

where our words ring bitter
networking blind
and our concerns rest in dollar signs
as Sabbath is ignored

We puff out our chests
and strive for the land of the living
spoiled with our fumes
and burners set on high
where love carries an interest rate
and the only worthy donations glorify

So that one day you can curse
the methods of selfishness
and the Creator of all that is good
for the lapse in scheduling

So our desperation clicks
and consequence is backed out, condoned
And you wait on that paper so thin
in that house of winners
where the cross of condemnation leads you to say,
“No, I don’t want to see,”

So we sink a little lower
behind those flashing ads
of what we want to be:
hidden in jewels and lingerie

So keep up your feet
on that smoked leather
to watch arms unwind
to dart eyes
and live in all you wanted
Nothing got in your way.

So you turn and see
her paper skin
and story unwritten
by coloring crayons

You sit and curse the world
for being so cruel
and all that was meant to be good
because here you sit
in the land of the living
but you definitely deserve more

And think of that paper pure
when consolation
is as easy as
what’s in the hotel drawer