On display, she sat— 

A woman bound in a unitard; her fragile form confined within walls lined with books she could never read. 

Her purpose was singular: to perform. 

Each visitor pressed the button, commanding her to dance. 

The delicate shoes cracked and snapped beneath her. 

Each fracture, each moulding of her form, mirrored the demands placed upon her. 

She twisted and contorted, her body mimicking the poses men had immortalized in stone— 

not for her, but for the gaze that consumed her. 

An audience of shadows, men in the cold- 

Lurking, smiling, watching her perform.  

For what they have created; the ideal of the woman, a porcelain object.  

To be consumed, watched, and used. 

For what they don’t know, she dreams of the books surrounding her- 

Yearns for the knowledge and power they hold in quiet cruelty.  

Not to be held eternally in a pirouette with a needle to her side.  

Her trembling form stifling the breath that aches to escape. 

As she winds down, the men laugh and cheer- 

Their fleeting attention in a hollow reward. 

Only to leave, she remains- within the walls of the bookshelf. 

The woman’s existence reduced to a spectacle.