Your eyes, a yellow shade of green, tempt me to sit down, but I stand, exasperatedly sucking in my gut. 
They look over me, evaluating me as if I were up for sale, a delicate old sale.
One that is expensive. You're trying to figure out if I'm antique or if I'm collectors, but maybe I'm just sentimental value at which case, I have no value to you.

It never crossed my mind that I am not of sentimental value, I'm not old, not even fragile. I am art. I am a sculpture. Someone molded me with their thoughts, eyes, kisses, and words.