Nonconsensual Performance Art

My body was ravaged for power & in turn, I starved it for desire. 

They all gawk like I am some sort of live performance art, but I never consented to playing the part. 

Because we’re deemed either a wife, a one-night stand, or a statistic.

I am clinging to hope, but it’s slipping as quickly as my rights… how pessimistic. 

For I don’t want to be remembered by my curves that they want to trace or my lips that they want to embrace. 

Is it so impossible to see me for my grace?