They call me an after thought of a man,
I smile through tears, the best that I can.
With a body made of paper.
To write secrets I’m not prepared for.
The words mar upon my sleeves.
To make right, the conscious of thieves.
Only to touch, with the slightest of flame,
And watch me wither under man’s bullshit blame.
Because of lies, smudged upon my cuff.
Since the truth from a woman is never enough.
“It’s easier,” they say, “to bend your paper skirt away.”
“Paper pants, will get you further, even to this day.”
Promised to honor, words spoken with love,
But it’s a lie. In the end no one really believes a sad dove.
When a lady’s smile is meant to be painted,
And the fold of her paper skirt. Untainted.
So then, is it better? To erase the fake words written.
Than to attempt truth boasting as paper wo-men.