Dear Gender,

I question, in the depths

of a male's gaze

when our eyes meet

across the counter,

why my hands become frozen 

against the screen, ready

for an order that I cannot hear,

why my breath stills

and why I cannot breathe.

My body fails me.

A silent language tells me,

look away To the safety 

of a woman's gaze.  

In her eyes I see a mirror

of understanding even

if those eyes

may never be gentle. 

Under an old man’s 

towering frame and gaze

dissecting every 

curve and line of my body

a man who doesn’t care about the look 

of disgust that paints my face

I look down

and laugh while he’s laughing

because I feel I have to

at the compliments

on my body and smile. 

I have no choice.

Another one next in line, it’s

right out the door, it’s a game 

to see who makes me scream. 

Then blame it was me 

who showed too much skin. 

Wandering eyes. It doesn’t matter

what I wear. Baggy jeans, 

a dirty work shirt and hair untamed. 

Where is the appeal to look 

at an underage girl and

see a forbidden fruit. No shame 

in being part of the reason 

I cannot bare the thought of growing up,

to want find a man

who does not make me feel

as if I am just something to stare at.

That I am not just something to touch,

That I am more.

So I stare into a woman's gaze

one who has lived what I go through.

A mirror into my future

so many paths 

of who I will stand next to.