my body is not a temple

my body is not a temple, it’s a museum
a museum with exhibits for men to touch and feel and admire
even though all the signs say “only look with your eyes”
fingertips hardened with callouses brush against my cheek
“smile more, it looks pretty on you”
says a man's gruff, old voice from across the room
right, i’ll do anything to make myself prettier
in this social climate where beauty is a currency,
if i am not beautiful, i mean nothing
i plaster a faux smile on my face until he walks away
yellowish teeth with a jaunty chip, pink lipstick, rose candy scented mouth
and as my chest lowers with a breath of relief, so does the smile