Your tactile eyes running over glossy paper, Printed on with tactile lies of glaze and gauze. They say, “forget yourself, adorn with this disguise,” This womanhood of smooth and tampered whores. Let me warn you of their cold sensitivity, They’ll have you gathered in a trap of glass. Is your reflection all that you will recognize? That cruel lie will stare you in the face. Wrapped up in the haze and flow of bridal gown, They tell your lover he must hold a gun. You’re the pornographic reassurance he’s a man, They deal in flesh, incarcerate with rags, Red lips, shimmer silk and body bags, Hairless legs against the blistered napalm burn. I want to rape the substance of your downy hair, In the mist a gutted child fights for air. Against the fragile, mashed and sweaty wound, Your facile beauty has an outrageous sound, Like a glamour billboard on a battlefield, At least the blood red poppy was of natures will, That flower perfecting by the barbed wire fence must be insulted by your scented poor pretense, Just as I, who finds it hard to touch you now, You traumatize my love with needle doubts, I want so gently to remove your mask. It’s hard enough to find water here, In this barrenness of dishonesty and fear, Without you accepting poison in a pretty pill. Your bandages of silky robes and lace, Are the bandages of a bullet ridden corpse, The layers of precious imitation worn, Are the layers of history to suffocate the unborn.