I am your property.
I am the arm candy that you show off to the world.
You merged sugar and spice, only to
power-puff your dominance into my life.
I am a buffet.
I am hooked up for all to see, in my medium rarity,
knife and forks in the shape of rings and jewels.
I am here for your entertainment.
The empty streets are your catwalk and you Tyra Bank
on the fact that you have the loudest whistle so I will run to you.
I am not your friend.
Out of tight spots, you twist and turn to pull me out so
you must complain when there’s no screw.
I am your drawing.
Erase all the mistakes you can see and hope that the
extreme makeover will occur.
I am your fifty shades.
Flip through the covers and land on the lightest tone,
scorning the other forty-nine.
I am the distressed damsal, even if I don’t know it.
You armour reflects back to me and you tell me why
I’m not the farest in the land.
I am a store.
Everything is up for grabs no matter how bare or
hidden and frankly, first comes, first rests.
I am everyone’s but my own.