Stop Sucking Your Teeth at Me Sir

There are men that say that I should take it as a compliment. That I should revel in grasping exhalations because it means I am worth something. Because it means that someone has taken the time out of their day to dissect the pieces worthy of measuring, stretch them out, and declare me desirable.

I understand that our eyes and loins can betray our better selves. That physical beauty calls upon something in our lizard brains. But that call does not mean you can call out to me. Call out to the resounding beat of my step as I walk to my own home. I saw you slow down, saw you loiter until our paths would cross so you could inform me of your appreciation.

Unfortunately I had the nerve to not be gracious of your praise. To not extoll you for bestowing your stamp of approval upon this body. For this I am condemned to bitchdom. Written off as one more of “these-here-uppity-hoes”. Before I saw you, I was was thinking (because I can do more than switch a good skirt). I was wondering how I’ve slid into this person who can’t find a reason to get out of bed. This person for whom the sun is a reminder of things incomplete, who can’t close her eyes at night with the knowledge that the sun will be there tomorrow. Questioning whether her struggles, her mistrust, her doubt are valid.

I had these thoughts before you, and I will have them after you’ve gone. You asked me why don’t I smile — whatever it was, you didn’t do it. In this you have never been more right. You have done nothing for me.

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