An object

She wasn't a human; she was always an object of desire. The words from people tell me that she is more than that, but I let my eyes judge what I see. All I see is an object craved with meticulous details; how can she be a perfect object for a man?

Every part of her body oozes the conformity of a sexual object. I don't see her as a human being; whenever I say that the crowd around me frowns. Like I made a terrible mistake, should I rely on what I see or the things I couldn't see?

I tried; god knows that I tried; I even plucked one of their eyes to see what they see in her. But nothing changes at all, they all see what I see, yet they feel the need to say different things to be a moral citizen.

No matter how many pages I used to create a picture of her, all of it turned into her being nothing but a sexual object. Half of the room in my head is filled with crumbled papers of her drawing in lustrous positions.

I can feel the vitriol from the people around me; I don't even care at all. Maybe the whole world has gone blind, or perhaps it's me who refuses to see what they see. I stare at her, the crowd starts mocking me, I begin to drool, and the crowd fills with anger and disgust. 

My body moves on its own; I don't think I have any control over my action. I tried to touch her with the tip of my finger. Suddenly everything stopped.

A strong guy walks up behind me and puts his arm on my shoulder, "your time is over! What is gonna be? "

I think I am ready to buy her. 

Sure, he replies, she is one of our good products, that's why we have her at the glass window.