objectify me

objectification is just cannibalism disguised as a compliment

I want to be the ink on your skin, not the meaning behind the symbol but the pigment itself, trapped in the dermis.

Map me out like a constellation across your ribs, a series of points for you to trace when you’re bored, stripped of my mythology and reduced to mere geometry. I’ll be your permanent ornament, silent and unchanging, a decorative scar that validates your ownership of the space I occupy.

I want to be the dragon winding down your spine or the dark bloom of a spider lily that never needs water, existing only to make the landscape of your body more interesting to look at. Until you realize that skin stretches and ink fades and eventually, your favorite art will blur into a gray, unrecognizable bruise you can’t remember earning.

Watch me the way you watch the moon through a lens: distant, cold and strictly for your aesthetic pleasure. I want to be the "subject" of your gaze, a well-composed frame where the lighting is always cinematic and my complexities are edited out in post-production. I’ll stay still while you adjust the focus, a perfect, static image of devotion, a crescent of light designed to pull at your tides without ever asking for a reason why. I want to be your private eclipse, something rare and beautiful that you can point to and say, “Mine.”

But remember that when you stare too long at the light through a glass, the heat concentrates; eventually, the very thing you’re trying to capture will burn a hole straight through the film, leaving you with nothing but a charred memory of a view you never actually saw.

Turn me into a vessel, something crafted to hold whatever version of "us" makes you feel most like a hero. I want to be the vase on your table, existing only to make the flowers you bought look better by association. I’ll be the hollowed out space you fill with your own echoes, a quiet porcelain witness to your life, an heirloom you value for its fragility rather than its function. I’ll stand on the shelf, holding the weight of your expectations without a single tremor, a masterpiece of negative space.

The twist, of course, is that a vessel defines itself by what it lacks and the moment you finally try to pour something real into me, something heavy and warm you’ll find I was never fired in the kiln and I’ll dissolve back into the mud at your feet, leaving your hands covered in the earth I was stolen from.

Treat me like a song you’ve memorized but never understood. I want to be the background noise to your best days, a melody you hum without thinking, a rhythm you use to steady your own heartbeat. Use me to fill the silence when you’re lonely and skip me when the mood changes; let me be a product of your playlist, a three-minute distraction that feels like a lifetime. I’ll be the perfect hook, the bridge that never breaks, the sound of your own desires played back to you in high fidelity. But the irony of music is that it only exists as long as there is air to vibrate; once you stop listening, I don't just go silent, I become the ringing in your ears that reminds you of everything you were too distracted to hear when the music was actually playing.

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What a futile attempt to simplify a complex world by stripping away its most profound element: shared consciousness.

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