Contrary to your sickening opinions,
I am not an object for you to look at,
for you to mock,
for you to humiliate,
for you to whistle at while I walk past.
You, laughing and leering, your
objectifying gaze landing on me,
my bra strap, my jean shorts.
I’m sorry, but it’s ninety-five degrees out,
and while you are permitted to be shirtless
I can’t even leave the house without being ridiculed
unless my arms are covered,
unless my thighs are clothed.
Even then, you stare at me while I walk by.
My body, remember?
It’s there for you to look at, of course.
Isn’t it? I don’t think so, I’m a human being,
same as you.
Not an object, but
a person that you treat like
a doormat. Go ahead, wipe your muddy feet on me and
leave without a word,
without a muttered apology or a grumble of
“I wouldn’t do this to my mother, my sister, my wife,
my daughter.”
That’s what I thought.
Oh, and I’m supposed to take it
as a compliment?
Yes, thank you, stranger,
for that once-over you gave me,
that appreciative hum.
Thank you for letting me know that I pass your test,
congratulations to me.
It’s a good thing I picked what I did--
this tank top, these shorts
--so I could leave the house and not over-heat.
In exchange for escaping heat stroke,
I get called names.
Is that what I am? The names you call me?
Whore, skank, sleaze? Slut?
What makes you think it’s okay
to treat me like a dog?
You expect me to respond to a whistle,
to an “Answer me, b****.”
What is it that makes me so different?
Baring my shoulders, revealing my legs.
It is the thought that someday,
I might be equal to you? What is it?
Please, enlighten me, I’m confused.
What is it?
What is it?