calls from dark cars, the fear that grips my stomach when I walk the shortcut, the movements behind me always
throw my heart around rough and sandpapery. I am tired of being

embarrassed, having to explain myself, having to ask for forgiveness from others because my body warrants these men’s shark bites, these fins in the water

circling, making everyone around me feel uncomfortable. If I could take a knife and cut out pieces of me to hand to every menace in the night who slowed down to stare at my moving body,

I would give those pieces to them, blooded, dripping, raw with human soul and expression because I am
not his “girl” and I am not “babe” and I am not “****” and I am not whistles from the alley
and I am not drunken breath on lips,
I am afraid

to bear a girl one day, and have her carry the weight of undoubted beauty, of sparkling eyes, of lips that sing and announce and scream. but I know her shoulders will be strong
and her middle fingers will grow to be made of steel