Her skin is like paper

Her skin is like paper

A whole life is written on it

A fever could burn her up

Turn her into ashes

A strong wind

And she would dissipate

Nobody would know.

Every night

Is pitch black

Imagination is

A cold cellar

She is a prisoner of conscious

Thought

There is no death

It already happened

The moment she was slapped

Into life

Without the power

Of veto.

She is a chattel

There is no attempt

Failure to succeed is punishable

By prolonged life

Every breath is torture

When it is rationed.

The light of freedom

Is a myth

She knows

How easy it is

To be fooled

By a controlled substance.

The sky is a veil,

Whole truths can lie

Within its folds.

Secrets are biodegradable

Dust to dust,

She has seen it in dreams

Nobody cares to interpret.

Her desire

Is an irrelevance

Nothing is free

She was always owned

Always will be.

The only choice she has

Is to collapse

Completely

And she can only pretend

To know what happens next.