my body is an antique.
once it was loved and treasured and used.
it felt hands, and fingertips, lips even.
its curves were delicately stroked.
its openings softly prodded.

it was a thing of pride,
to be shown off to others.
it was not perfect.
but deep love made it so.

now, my body is cold and broken.
a cracked vase in a dirty window.
they stare at me. they leer and stare and leer and stare.
and I dance for them.
I dance and I twirl and I smile for them.

they want to buy me.
they know that I am broken.
they know I will be easily fixed.
with love.
with hands.
putting me back together,
correct, this time.

but I don't want it.
I am myself,
this broken, alone thing.
I want to remain cold.
I don't want a new flower in my vase.
just the memory of the last,
flitting over me like a butterfly,
eyelashes, lips, fingertips.
gone to another.

my body is an antique.
that is how it will remain.