I am not a woman

I am a piece of clay meant to be shaped and sculpted until it is perfect

And the artists have an uncanny control over me

They tell me to shave the extra hair off my body

For “sanitary reasons”

And if I cut myself, the bleeding will lead to beauty

They assure me

They tell me to douse my face with chemicals

Because it makes me “less ugly”.

And if the effects of those unpronounceable ingredients catch up to me, it will lead to beauty

They assure me

And when the artists tell me to grin

Because I “look prettier that way”,

They don’t know how much I want to be free from this form

Do they understand that I want to fall apart?

Do they understand that despite the smile, I hate myself on the inside?

Or will say, when I die, that I look graceful

That I have turned from clay to porcelain

Even when they see the blood flowing from my wrists?

Of course they will.

They will say, “this is how bleeding leads to beauty!” And hoist me into a shelf in their art studio.

They will tell other clay figures

To mold themselves into something toxic, too,

And they will meet the same demise as me.

Because bleeding leads to beauty,

And we don’t have a voice.