I used to paint myself to plastic perfection. By the buzzing light of my squalid bathroom, I would paint a portrait of a queen on an otherwise less stunning, far less beautiful canvas. Synthetic eyelashes, artificial pigments and all, I was something to devour.

And as I adorned myself in little more than lace and elastic, I felt less like a plastic gem. I felt far more like a diamond, primed and ready to be displayed to an endless array of lost souls from every dark corner of the internet.

I had never been more lauded in my life. I was some sort of ethereal creature to worship.

But only as much as I was a ***** to purchase.

And all too quickly, the gems lost their sparkle. The tokens lost their shine, and I lost that glimmer in my eye.
As much as I was a work of art to inspire, I was cheap, and thrown together. Meant to be torn apart.

And now, so many people own so many parts of me. So many secrets.
I cannot even own myself.