If you look into somebody's eyes,
you can tell a lot about their lot in life.
I looked in your eyes, you looked in mine.
You looked tired. Exhausted. Beaten down.
One look at the man you were with, and I could see why.
His speech was slurred.
His laugh was manic.
His legs could not untangle.
This was clearly not your first intoxicated outing with him.
You were clearly tired.

I'm tired too.
I'm tired of running through parking lots.
I'm tired of having to check my backseat before locking the car door.
I'm tired of the men who make me live this way.
I'm tired of men like your drunken company.

When a drunk man calls you pretty, it is no compliment.
There's an unspoken threat beneath the innocent words.
For a moment, you're not a girl, you're a target.
For a moment, you're not pretty, you're prey.
So when your drunken company said it,
stopped his singing to the sky and spoke to me,
told me I was a pretty little girl and should watch my back,
I ran. I dove in my car. I locked the doors. I drove way.

You. You stood and watched silently.
You watched fear wash over my features.
You did nothing.
And surely not for the first time.
No one goes through life long without bearing witness
to a spectacle like what your company created.
You did nothing. Just like most.

To the man in the market,
I do not blame you.
I looked in your eyes.
I get it, you're tired.
I'm tired too.
But you looked in my eyes.
Do you get it? I'm afraid.