Everytime I let
the men on the street,
feast on my anatomy,
I lose body parts.

The first part to disappear
are my fingers,
leaving me unable
to touch.

The second part to disappear
are my feet,
leaving me unable
to walk.

The third part to disappear
is my throat,
leaving me unable
to talk.

If a fourth part were to disappear,
I fear it would be my heart,
leaving me unable
to love.

I search for my body parts
in hopes of
becoming whole again.
But they are scattered
among hungry dogs
wide-eyed and salivating,
always wanting more.

Crippled,
I face forward
and avoid eye contact,
repeating silently:

I must protect my heart.
I must protect my heart.
I must protect my heart.