I am not yours

I am not your pretty place to be, to see, even to understand,
Because seriously, I am nowhere to be.
Look at me!

The ears, the nose, eyes, lips ripped from bites and cheekbones displaying a past that isn't mine
What was outside of the suitcase on the way from Ukraine, Poland
England, France.
This face is constructed. I see you cut and paste, put my head on someone else's body,
put my face on your pillow.
Put my clothes on the seat of your car.
I see you!

I am not your little thing to hold,
Not precious, don't polish me.
I bite.
I wear the skirt, the hat, the stockings and the lace because I want to know how I'll feel in them.
And let's be honest, because at some point, it looked great in Vogue.

I am not your doll to poke at,
so, don't brush my hair, change my clothes, twist my head away from my body.
Don't tell me what you want me to be. Because I'll only make you unhappy.
Don't tell me I'm too short, too pale, too fat, too muscle, too bone, too woman, too smart, too funny, too quiet, too much or not enough.
Who are you?

I am not your piece of art.
I wear the warpaint of my own tribe, my mother's and grandmother's,
of my little sister and my girlfriends, of my own sense.
If I put too much eyeliner on, I'm not telling you to touch me.
I am not telling you to buy me something, to call me a new name, to guess what colour underwear I'm wearing, and I'm not asking you to parcel me up and take me home.
I'm just saying I like to wear eyeliner.

I am not yours.
I am who I give to.
I am who I take from.

You're just like me: cut and paste, pan up, pan down,
close up on the one in the middle who happens to be staring.
You're the heaviness I get every day, you're the world that is so real it hurts, and the world I hurt myself with.
You're not one man.
You're not one woman, not just one person.

What I know is that I am not yours.