She's got a perfectly sweet hand.
My hand crumbles if I even think about touching her fair porcelain surface.
My mask is under a lot of pressure these days,
worn by many.
By the time I get it back, it's dirty.
Smudged with whatever goo drips from the pores of perfection.

She's got a perfectly cracked mask.
Parallel tear-drops hover elegantly over evenly raised, rouged cheekbones.
The crack cuts from right temple to left jawbone
and there is not a single sign of glue.

She's got a perfectly ironed shirt.
It breathes for her, in, out, in ,out.
I struggle to breathe in this too tight tank top
My stomach too big, my breasts too small,
they might fall out if I breathe too quick
so I try not to breathe at all.
And when I inhale, I cough
As she blows smoke-rings from her perfectly red porcelain lips
it forms halos around her perfectly shaped, shaved, devilish head.

My head is itchy.
I slept late this morning dreaming of touching her perfectly sweet hand
And it's hard to lather your shampoo when your hands have crumbled.

This Way............................................................That Way