The photographer took my photo and claimed

I’m the immigrant dwelling

inside his essential project;

I took a picture of my blood orange cocktail,

Revolución, in front of the NYC skyline and labeled 

it in my album.

Never owned a cock nor overthrown any art forms,

this savory drink soured to

hen blood, truth or dare

Tweaking my cheek with the same posture as 

the photographer pressed the steering wheel 

securely on his imported car.

I requested of him, 

Sir, I no longer want to participate since

it’s dangerous to expose my condition.

The butterfly net in the same position as 

the camera blocks your view. Look out! 

The ladybug perches on my face is alive & 

not for catching.

This male American photographer wouldn’t let me withdraw 

due to a previous misconception 

he grasped my legs and complimented his exotic ex-wife casually

I emphasized, 

I rebuff to sell my wounds or I shall be the seller who

sets a price.

He admired,

How beautiful, you’re still a monster that 

submits to my amusement.

Bees collect resin outdoors,

westerners preserve the time in a jar.

Cracking me to your gold fever, 

insects keep shivering in the wild.

Everybody is invited to the exhibition.