Make me a suit made by measurements of humanity

Self-preservation is when I embrace
all hatred people have taught me,
not to be like that, full of contempt
and to make myself a suit
from their attempts
to make me one of them.
I am a mutilated article myself,
article about the current state of human misery
in which I can stand high,
in the middle of a crowd roaring.
On my fingertips, I walk
over the sharp stones of existence
and I portray myself as only
normal, stuck and indifferent.

They approached me with faces like
Swiss cheese from which the sanies drip,
stalkers in red forms
and stretched plasticine smiles.
The world doesn’t register our struggles.
In the meantime, there’s this sound,
buzzing, like a disturbance in the atmosphere.

I lock myself in a room and spend
the rest of the day thinking
how good my suit is,
so I wrap myself in sheets,
layer by layer, I cover a hole in me,
not letting myself be
accessible to their claws.

It all started well
when I passed a long time ago
through polished city streets
listening to how they praise my interior.
And how I’m gracefully declining threats
they threw in my face like a wet cloth,
through the clay eye windows.

So I wondered how I became
so extremely untouchable to the world.
I smiled and just when I started
explaining the basics of apathy
to someone who I met yesterday,
I felt the fabric around
my waist began to melt and the familiar smell of smoke
as it spreads under my skin.
What happened?

Now, everything I put on myself,
it dissolves and melts like wax,
it clogs my veins
without ever covering my shame.
I try a different shirt,
I dress over and over again,
each layer adapts to the shape of the previous one.

There’s no escape.
Cotton walls are like a bomb
that beats close to my brain,
reminding me how much time I have left.
How do you want your armor to be made today, sir?
Make it woolen,
make it silk, it doesn’t matter.
Or, better to be made of shiny marble,
so that I can be a statue,
artwork observed by
critics who claim to understand
confidence in the fashion of this millennium
dictated by the same people.

Make me a suit made by measurements of humanity.
It’ll look good on me, I know how to wear it.

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