mannequin

Strip me down, what do you see?
Am I all you thought I’d be?
Or would you veil me from their eyes,
And pageant me on stage with lies?

Adorn­ing me in gar­ments soiled,
What bril­liance I had, you’ve spoiled,
Sweet rar­i­ties from me you’ve seized,
And still I’ve left you unappeased.

De­fined as some­thing that you own,
A tro­phy placed be­side your throne,
One sim­ple, use­less decoration,
De­prived of hon­est admiration.

Forced kneel­ing at your side each day,
Sup­pressed by you, yet still I stay,
Trapped by fear, I can­not hide,
Your com­mands I will abide.

Have I done this to myself,
Rest­ing idle on your shelf?
Or can I redi­rect the blame,
Dis­sem­bling my own sense of shame?

Suc­cumb­ing to this suffocation,
Ac­quaint­ed well with subjugation,
Por­tray­ing vic­tim by default,
Ne­glect­ing I’m the one at fault.

Aware I am expendable,
Wish­ing I were respectable,
This over­reach­ing inhibition,
Ap­pears as wel­comed imposition.

Our in­equiv­a­lent exchange,
Has left me des­o­late and strange,
Lack­ing sense of will within,
Act­ing as a mannequin.

—kay­la walker

Flom­mist Kay­la Walk­er is just a sim­ple poet who is fas­ci­nat­ed by rhyme, us­ing it as a voice to speak for the girl lost in her own mind. Copy­right © 2016 Kay­la Walk­er. Foto by mehal­lo, man­nequin via GOS”.

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