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Molding and squeezing me between its fingers,
scratching off the paint until it chips and flies.
Slowly putting our essence through the ringer,
until we’re the new model everyone wants to buy
Guidelines and codes of conducts given to us at birth,
binding our hands to the back of the bus.
A conspiracy fed to us, our life, our curse,
until the metal of the new model rusts.
Strings cutting the circulation of my toes,
now hurt at dinner when I take a seat.
Stereotypes poison permeates my nose.
They do say, “you are what you eat.”