Bare breasted and prone girl, discordant yet inconspicuous. Designed to be subservient, secondary.
A symbolic afterthought, propping up the important men in their military regalia.
Each of them full of violent agency.

By contrast the girl is faceless, nameless, reduced to mere allegory.
An inequity so obvious that commenting on it almost feels absurd.
She is the Figure of America, the Genius, the Symbol of Liberty. But she is not a person.
Instead she is a stand-in for the fantasies of conquest cherished by the assembled men.

I am this girl. Without my consent, I am she.

I stretch out my hand to relinquish the sword that will be used to slay me.
My sisters bearing witness say no. They reject this action.
My body carrying the harm, displaying the scars, also says no.

I reject this representation, a proposition to celebrate my own oppression.
But I will keep the proffered sword and hold it close. I will use it to defend myself.
It will be my tool as I fight to be the subject of my own story.