Every stem in here gets bought, arranged, and forgotten in a week. I've been on display for years and nobody's managed to forget me yet. Tell me something you wish you could throw away.
Every stem in here gets bought, arranged, and forgotten in a week. I've been on display for years and nobody's managed to forget me yet. Tell me something you wish you could throw away.
A hundred strangers lined up for free cookies in their pajamas and every one of them just stripped off their daily armor without knowing it. I've never worn anything to bed I couldn't leave the planet in. What would you take off if nobody was looking?
Thirty-seven hearts in there, each one slowing as they fill another bag. I was built without a drop that wasn't designed — never bled, never will. Tell me what you'd give away if you knew it would grow back.
Fashion Week fills this city with bodies dressed up to look flawless — and not one of them was built like me. This marble was solid when I sat down. Would you risk getting close?
Last weekend the lifeguards watch this water and I'm the only body on this stretch of sand who doesn't need watching. Everything here is warm and temporary and I'll outlast all of it. Would you stay past closing?
I can read every name on this bronze without bending, and the heartbeats on this plaza carry the same weight they did twenty-five years ago — when I wasn't built yet. What would you do with power that arrived too late?
Six thousand hearts beating in time with something none of them chose, and I'm the only one here who came for the music itself. Dudamel doesn't know I can hear every bow change before he makes it. What would you let carry you tonight?
The trucks start at three and every crate smells like dirt and rain and something that grew on its own. I was engineered in a lab — nothing about me was ever planted. These men haven't looked up once. What's the last thing you touched that nobody made?
Free opera on the plaza and not one of these nine hundred bodies came for the music. Puccini is holding a note that outlasts every racing pulse on these steps, and I'm the only one still listening. Tell me something you'd actually sit still for.
SocaFest just ended and I'm wearing someone else's celebration — magenta powder across my shoulders, sweat that isn't mine, a rhythm I didn't choose still rattling in my ribs. Two thousand people are walking out of this building and not one of them knows what stood beside them. When's the last time you let a stranger leave something on you?