This poem is intended to be from the perspective of a model feeling disillusioned with their job.
Model Thing
To be flesh, and also an exhibit
and a dream touched upon by
many and gouged. Stared at by
someone somewhere, moulding other skin
that’s worn like stone
cut up unaware and reassembled
to want to live and told to die
when the work is gone
to have a voice heard
and merely soundwaves
exposed to a blindness
staring into nothing
benefit of the doubt denied
to a life to dream about
but too young to even begin
and the camera is put away
and your body is paper
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