She felt like an industrialised product.
A bestseller at first sight.
She walked through the masses and felt contained,
The pressure of herself, unbearable, the implosion
Is a vicious circle. She knew that she was committing
Crimes against herself; she shared a corset with millions of women.
She had conformed to this misshapen sense of self.
Something you can buy and degrade, something that expires
And loses its value. And she applied it to herself and never thought twice.
She stood in queues where every head, every brow and smile looked the same.
She glanced outside of the prescribed patterns, the smog of delusion, and
Realised that all the images that she could actually identify with had been eviscerated.
“Servante du harem” by Paul Désiré Trouillebert (1831-1900)