On the Touching of the Soul

Their eyes trace my skin

Like fingers on a page.

Their words find my ear

With laughter coarse as sandpaper.

The whistles echo

In the din of the street,

And although I am surrounded

By crowds of people,

I have never felt so helpless and alone.

I hear their mocking tones,

Their crude jokes.

But I try to hold my head high.

I should have nothing to fear,

Yet inside I tremble

Like the last leaf on an autumn branch.

They teach us while we are young

That our bodies are our own fault.

We are to blame

For our curves and our chests.

We are told they are distracting.

But how

Can they say we are the problem

When I have been violated?

Not by hands on my flesh,

Not by rough fingers scraping my skin,

But by words and stares

That although do not physically harm,

Seem to molest my soul.

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
My country
Our world

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