It hurts to be looked at like I’m nothing.
As if I’m just an object
That you can pick up and place
In your shopping cart. It hurts
To know the things going through
Your mind are not safe. When you smirk
And scoff, mock and jeer,
Do you not understand
The fear that grips my heart?
The not knowing, is the worst part.
What guides your eyes, sin
or hate? does the color of my skin
give you the right to reach and
out taste? I’m not an exotic fruit
to be plucked and devoured.
i hate when men twice my age
gear up for the hunt. i hate when
they feel entitled to my smile.
i hate it. i hate it. i hate it!
will my eyes run dry when
you pluck my fruits, will
my branches wither at your
heated touch, will my flowers
curl up and die when you
tell me to smile and show me those pretty eyes?
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 