We can wrap our bodies in as much decorative paper
as we like,
but still it will rip and tear
the more we leave it up for display.
Prodded, examined and manhandled
until it is mere tissue paper,
hanging limply from the weathered remains
of our original form,
so covered in dust and mildew
that we no longer know
who we were before we prettied
to other people’s tastes.