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  • Cassandra Dinulescu

Now Presenting…

You own me:

faces of portraits presented

to those whom you entertained.

I am held by the nails

on the slick white wall,

and encased in spotless glass boxes.

A note hangs by each piece

that you are pedestaling.

You display your perfect collection

while that which ashamed you

remains locked away,

hidden in the basement.

I remain to live.

This museum gives me meaning.

I am useless, only worth the value

posted next to each piece of me.

My purpose is to be admired,

my goal to be envied.

A poor investment made, as

I depreciate over time.

Your guests lose interest

in me.

You are angry.

Find, grow, build new parts.

A new story, a popular trend,

A shinier frame.

I must remain relevant

to remain on this pedestal,

to maintain the worth decided for me.

Desperately growing, building, lying.

Cracks form in the pedestals.

The floor is caving in and we fall through.

Here is the dark putrid basement.

The dust finally settles, as

all your guests peer down the hole.

You lay in your hidden shame.

We lay there together.

We are worthless now,

your collection is no longer impressive.

But I still remain,

because I matter, as long as you believe I do.

And you believe I matter

as long as I belong to you.


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