I’ve Naught But Skin Stretched Over Bone

I’ve naught but skin stretched over bone
And that then draped in lace;
Poise maintained, ethereal tone—
Both writ upon my face.

I must admit, to my chagrin
The poets got it right:
It’s lovely, yes, the pallid thin
That full describes my plight.

I do appear in some sense clear
Meant to apotheose,
This lovely, pure, and dying dear
Looks like a tragic rose

Yet coughing still in cambric lace
Into its warp and weft
The tragic, lovely, bleeding girl
Holds to what she has left