everyone else’s piece of art

Writer’s Note: The topic of this poem is about the idea of existing as a conscious work of art being spectated in a museum. It encapsulates loneliness with the added feeling of life being out of your hands. I wanted a more interesting way to present these feelings, to feel like a thing to be gawked at. Enjoy reading.

i hang here, by a string on a nail. paint on paint on canvas. 

everyone tells me i’m art, a piece of art. people love to tell me what i am, to decide for me. i never feel like i have the option to say what i am.

as i hang here, they walk up and hover. they point at me and talk about me. they love me, or they hate me, or they act like they care when they talk about me. my job is to let them talk about me. they are always talking about me, not to me or with me, but about me.

it’s lonely not to be in the conversation but the subject. i’m just a subject to people. as i hang here and play my role, as they just walk up and away, i can do nothing but perform. 

maybe i’m too hurt to be seen, all the baggage of life dragging behind me. maybe i was meant to be a spectacle for others. just an object.

people give me their attention when it’s convenient for them. as if a quick glance or short conversation makes me important for a moment. i can’t remember the last time i felt important in life.  

they observe and drool and criticize. so many harsh words when kind ones are easier to speak. if i scream, can they hear me? do they want to hear me?

i don’t want to perform anymore, to be an object forever. 

when does it end? when?

Written by: Melanie Diel

Edited by: Olivia Wagner

Published on the Strike Magazine Orlando blog, Fall 2024