Men stared at me that night.

Took my picture as I posed.

Art on the gallery walls that wasn’t mine.

The night I modeled for Falcon,

I was seventeen and wore a grey cat suit.

With pasties on my nipples.

A 6 thousand dollar necklace

that dripped off my perfect looking self.

They thought I was older.

I saw their lustful expressions.

One man touched my lower back. 

From my spot, 

posing for the people,

I saw the artists giving an interview.

Part of me wanted to switch places.

It was hard giving up that beauty

when age crept in..

I don’t know how to be that beautiful anymore.

I’m still lovely, but don’t shine like that.

I’m 32 and I’m so big they call me Fatti Smith.

People don’t look at me the same.

The smile on a stranger’s face is there,

but it’s different in a way 

that only a former model can understand.

And now I experience all of what I see anew.

Beauty is in the idea of the beholder.

I behold the world and it vibrates so skillfully.

I’d rather make beautiful things

than be beautiful.

Finally.

The artist is here.