I was not created to hang as an art piece in your gallery. My complexities, beauties, and worth could not be created with the stroke of a brush. No surface level tapestry could encompass my soul.

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Yet, here I hang, in an open admission gallery, my body a masterpiece to be gazed upon. I feel your eyes studying my curves and lines, but you are no expert of art.

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The halls of this exhibit are the sidewalks I travel, the streets I run, the places I exist in daily life. You, the patrons of this establishment, are the men who stare, who call out, who pay no fee to gawk at me.

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I have placed a "do not touch" sign in front of me to ward you off, but some still reach. Some still run their fingers over my canvas, a painting to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, the most greedy observer. 

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Some have touched, grabbed, taken so much that the original integrity of this piece could never be restored. Some have touched while others have only stared, but all have taken.

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Your observation of me has acted like the sunlight on my colors. I have faded.

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I do not exist to please you, but I can see that I do. I feel the stares burn into me. No signs, security, or protective measures can guard me from the wear and tear of your gaze and touch.

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I am a masterpiece of life and love, but I was not created to hang as an art piece in your gallery.