I am the wrinkles where your clothing bunches together,
formed not of time and experience,
but mere physics
and nothing more
though I give form to your inadequacies and strengths alike,
that should be worth something,
the same response to any ear
without moderating the reality;
having never seen myself as a god
I wouldn't have the right
much loathed proof of sleeping,
hiding what you hold in common with the world
behind heat presses and steam,
for everyone knows shirt collars that crisp aren't natural,
yet they still applaud how put together
you look this morning,
smiling behind their own hurried masks
of makeup and coffee
sister, twin indicator of humanity,
of past emotion etched into skin,
is treated much the same
making me wonder why we're so quick
to hide what makes us human
Author notes
Random thoughts tossed together.
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