why do you look at me like that?

because my shirt is short?
I thought you knew-
I thought you knew I had a stomach filled with acid, that digests pieces of men like you.

or is it because I didn't wear a bra?
I thought you knew-
I thought you knew I had breasts,
and nipples to nourish my future daughters,
until they're stronger than your stares.

You'd think all grown men would know enough about anatomy to keep themselves from drooling.
So what is so damn interesting about the dead cells on my epidermis?

But I don't want your explanation.
Your words are not worthy of my ears.
I don't want to know what you're imagining,
what you're wondering,
I stopped that way too many years ago.

So when I feel a pair of pupils burning and scratching at my skin,
I look at them with the
“say something and I kill you” look my sister taught me when I was 11.
some notice, and look away.
some never notice my stare,
their gaze south of my eyes- the windows to my mind,
Too mesmerized by the flesh and bone I carry around.

But the worst ones -
they notice and keep staring.
Mocking my anger, they smirk at me,
As if they know something about me,
As if they own me.
Then running their cruel, excited eyes up and down my body,
my skin,
my home.

As if they're observing an object made of plastic,
an object that can't see them,
an object that's hollow.
They don't consider what's under my skin,
what's under my skull,
Only what's under my clothes. 

As if every cell in my body is insignificant,
unless they're shaped into an hourglass and on the F train at 7 am.