Object

I am tired of being an object.

I do not enjoy being the silent wallflower, which is only sometimes noticed and sometimes acknowledged. Which breathes in only the social residue of others' joy and exchange. This I can remedy--I am not actually silent, nor am I actually uninteresting. Luckily, I am not designated to become the resident wallflower every day. Or multiple times a day. I can handle being her, sometimes.

I do not enjoy being the token, hilariously small Asian, which is mostly observed and joked about. But this, too, I handle mostly well. I am not A Stereotype every day, or even multiple times a day. There are laws to handle most of that, now.

I do not enjoy being a sexual object, every day, multiple times a day, without my express consent. It is tiring to be an object, which is faceless, spiritless, and made only for a single purpose. But I understand--such is life. I handle this well enough, knowing fully that there are others who love and appreciate me for my

But it is so damaging to find that someone who appreciates you for your spirit and for your character--someone who you think will help you slog through the dull and acute pains of life, someone who seems to understand so well--doesn't want to help you at all. Really, you are just the object--the Asian, the woman with the pretty smile and the yielding vagina, the thing that will satisfy appetite and postpone loneliness, that will distract you from your mid-life regrets, temporarily brighten your dulled, sexless world, that will serve you selflessly, without expectation.

To be an object first and a person second is cruel and effacing. Even more so when it is relentless, ever-persistently robbing you of your focus and your desires and your sense of self in order to shove your person into a tidy, useful, easily comprehensible form. Again and again. Tomorrow.

Soon, I will be gone.