Everyone Else's Piece of Art

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i hang here, by a string on a nail. paint on paint on canvas. 

everyone tells me i’m art, a piece of art. people love to tell me what i am, to decide for me. i never feel like i have the option to say what i am.

as i hang here, they walk up and hover. they point at me and talk about me. they love me, or they hate me, or they act like they care when they talk about me. my job is to let them talk about me. they are always talking about me, not to me or with me, but about me. 

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it’s lonely not to be in the conversation but the subject. i’m just a subject to people. as i hang here and play my role, as they just walk up and away, i can do nothing but perform. 

maybe i’m too hurt to be seen, all the baggage of life dragging behind me. maybe i was meant to be a spectacle for others. just an object. 

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people give me their attention when it's convenient for them. as if a quick glance or short conversation makes me important for a moment. i can’t remember the last time i felt important in life.  

they observe and drool and criticize. so many harsh words when kind ones are easier to speak. if i scream, can they hear me? do they want to hear me? 

Image Courtesy: Eternal 3D Blog

i don’t want to perform anymore, to be an object forever. 

when does it end? when? 

Strike Out,

Orlando

Written By: Melanie Diel

Edited By: Olivia Wagner & Krizia Figueroa