Those men who watch me when I walk home. They haven’t always watched, but I don’t remember when. Out of their windows in their cars as they pass by. Someone’s always watching me. So I walk with my fists squeezed tight, knuckles that would feel like brass, under my too long sleeves on my coat. Look fierce, Andrea, You have to be pissed. You never know who is watching. I don’t want to be your victim, so I glare at every car that passes by. “I will not be your victim”  you see in my eyes, when you watch.

Some of those “men” are still boys. And sometimes I remember that I like boys. I see the girls with no long sleeves to hide their hands because they don’t need to walk around hiding fists, and they don’t need coats because they’ve got leathery gloves, large and warm, to hold and swing. I see that, and I feel lonely. What is it like to have a boy around your shoulders and to be a carefree girl, to giggle and put all your heart in one safety box?

So I went close to you. And I remembered why I shouldn’t have. Why “don’t trust just anybody because the whole world’s not made of sugar,” only I was.

So now I flip off random cars that drive past me just in case you’re in one of them, watching me as you drive by.


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