Poemography

it doesn't matter anymore
though you think I don’t notice
the way your praise
is phrased
in smirking syllables of
condescension

I see you stepping away
and shielding your eyes
from the spectacle
of my exposition

it doesn't matter when
the words
like sharp fingernails
dig and peel me back
thinly as onion skin

(the fragile wrapping)

unveiled
undressed

(nothing changes)

So I leave it there
in the high street
I leave it on display
a feast
for the voyeur
yet uncomfortable
for the passerby

having filled
(no vacancy)
all the empty eyes

(I am not) here