Painting of a picture of a painting of a little boy

Drawing a picture with words

Help me!
I’ve been stuck here for years and years,
and weird strangers have come up to me
and “oohed” and “ahhed.”
I don’t know if they are mocking me
or admiring.
I feel like I’m some sort of lovely thing for people to gape at
with their wide eyes and changing fashions.
Perhaps I’m in the wrong place?
I’m a person—just like all of them,
I’m living life—just like they are.
Why, then, do they gaze at me
with such intensity that I want to
scream out at them,
“Why are you staring at me?”
I’ve stopped shouting, though,
because they never listen.

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