this body was new once.
pink and fresh-pressed for consumption,
my skin taut and shiny,
reflecting their desires back to them
like a build-your-own fantasy disco ball.
–
“mature for my age” and
“older than i looked”
young enough to tell me
to cover up for my own good.
and old enough to not want me to.
–
he liked how i came
newly packaged with
saran wrap and cellophane.
but no cellulite, he said.
–
with low lashes and dynamo! hair
i asked:
am i the easy-bake insta dream?
he said yeah
and liked the picture
of a girl who looked nothing like me
–
so i asked my browser
what do boys like?
and tried to follow the lines
of a made-for-tv body
sculpted by drs. filler, nip, and tuck.
blood leaking from my pores,
i made my bathroom mirror a surgeon’s table,
dissected the body there line by line
with drugstore concealer
and a steady hand.
–
i drew dream-girl into my skin,
and wrote his fantasies into my code.
i etched sex appeal into my silhouette,
the way i stood,
and spoke,
and sobbed.
–
a ready-made fabrication
by and for someone else
i reworked myself
into plagiarized desire
–
“this is not yours” he said,
pulled my body off the shelf,
stamped his name onto my skin,
and stuck me in the back pocket
of his hard-drive
– ready for consumption,
whenever you please.
–
later, he leaves.
and reminds me that “girl” is a single-use toy.
–
but i built this for you! i say,
measuring tape in hand.
shaving off calories,
shaving off hair,
whittling myself down to “woman”
–
there’s no apology, no receipt.
nothing for my time and tears.
because they trick you into thinking
a robbery was a sale,
and you were a willing participant.
–
they want you freshly packaged
so they can rip off the plastic wrap themselves
break the seal
and make you unsellable to anyone else.
–
– a fantasy that feeds not on your body
but on the desiccation of it.
–
“i got smarter, i got harder”
before my time.
after the facts of my body
caught up with my being.
–
now my cut-out doll shape
is wrinkled and worn.
folded and refolded for so many,
it no longer springs back
to factory settings.
–
my once-shiny surface
is smudged and scraped –
scars carved by a steady hand.
–
eventually there is too much history
in the lines of my face
for them to imagine
pressing their own name
onto my skin.