My Left Hip and Chest

In the shape of a horizontal sheet of paper,

they treat me as such.

Punching holes through my edges,

threading pins in my skin,

as if I'm nothing.

They call me by a new name,

reduce me to a number,

Something trackable,

As if I'm nothing.

They say it's for keeping score,

But the fame will never be mine.

I hear them scream

I feel the rush of all of their cheers–

none for me.

It’s never for me.

Sweat burns on my tongue,

soaking through,

and when I hang dry on the wall,

I’m a relic–

just a souvenir.