Stale

A poem by Kharma Gentner

We're not so different, you and I.

The clothes I wear,

Others’ opinions

Plastered on my body.

They like them, so I wear them.

No matter if I like them, I need to

Be unique. To stand out from my clones.

Who am I without my appearance?

The poses I strike

Exhaust me physically and emotionally.

I hold the same position,

The same composure,

Day after day,

To satisfy those passersby.

Interactions that last seconds for them

Mean everything to me.

The looks I get

And those comments that they think I can't hear,

Stab me to my core, but

I keep a stale face, emotions forever hidden.

I remain silent.

I get touched and groped,

Stripped and spanked;

Pictures are taken against my will.

I have to look sexy to sell clothes, but too much

And I am labeled disgusting

And an enemy to women.

Sometimes I fall, and I'm okay.

I collapse silently and nobody notices

For days.

Other times, not so much.

I get pushed one too many times and come

Crashing down, and my body

Shatters to pieces.

I rely on others

To dress me, to clean me, to build me back up again.

But at the end of the day,

No one is obligated to stay,

And so they leave.

They go home to their friends, but

I remain here, alone.

—

After hours, when everyone's gone,

And all that's left is me and

My reflection,

I ponder.

I'm the face of a whole store,

Yet my identity is still quite unsure of itself.

I stare and stare at the glass,

The invisible barrier between me and

The rest of society,

And every once in a while,

I see what they all see

Before they erase me from their memory:

A decoration, a muse, an object,

A stale face.