They talking about us like we aren’t here

They talk about our purpose

About how we should behave.

What our life is worth

How and when we should move our bodies.

Can’t they see us?

We are right here.

It’s just guys talking when there aren’t women around

Locker room pejorative don’t make a sound

But we hear you when whisper and you sexualize.

And we aren’t down for it don’t you realize.

You want to come but want her to bear it, when after you’ve had your fun

All you do is run.

I am not your women

Not something that can be owned.

Happily married but don’t wear no ring.

I am the only one who determines when I let go.

I am not a female in abstract without a name.

The tears I cry are real ones

They fall without shame.

For the lost one I couldn’t hold onto

But wanted just the same

And the naseau in the morning

vomiting in the nearest trash

After a morning ride through the Italian countryside

I didn’t fake that one.

The complications .

The bloody mess.

These don’t look nice on paper

But I digress.

I still here.

Still Listening.

Looking for agency.