Museum

I am a curated experience and I let the world feed off me. I should say: I want the world to feed off of me. If I’m not sustaining others, what is the point of me?

If I’m not sacrificing with purpose, what is my purpose?

I’m a body with parts that others consume; I take up space waiting to be eaten.

My density prevents me from disappearing. If I am visible at least let me fit!

In these spaces I hate to reserve comfort for me in case someone challenges, deservedly.

I’m so anxious to please! So hard to appease; why should I be happy with someone like me?

The exhibits aren’t numbered. No catalog order. No place for existence except in the border.

Selfish! That’s it! What I am when i think! When I want to be me instead of a drink.

Really, though, who wants my bones in the sink? Who really needs to see all that pink? Can you expect interest from people or things who don’t even know you, who don’t even sing?

My own song is precious; I’ll charge admission! That way I won’t feel bad for all the omissions.

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