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An Open Letter To Catcallers

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  • An Open Letter To Catcallers

    You slipped a sandwich onto my plate and told me that my body was like an hourglass figure.
    My breath hitched.
    I wondered if the sand in my stomach counted each second I've clung onto nothing.
    After all this time, are you happy about all my dreams coming true,
    or are you sitting barstools away thinking about how this only affects you?
    Somewhere in my stomach the sand is near empty.
    Does this mean I'm running out of time or beauty?
    Because the only compliment you seem to be able to muster is my fine hourglass figure.
    And what happens when the sand runs out?
    My hands reach forward offering you gifts in forms of castles and oceans and time.
    You slip a sandwich onto my plate and light a candle.
    You try to see what kinds of tricks my body can do in the dark.
    You must have forgotten that glass cracks and shatters when the heat gets too close,
    it will become molten liquid.
    Just another broken state of me, to fascinate you.
    You told me to eat my sandwich in the candle light,
    that I'm taking up too much of your time and money,
    like you bought me on eBay for 18.98.
    You crushed my castles, drained my oceans, ignored my time.
    I was just a figure to you.
    One to measure out how badly you wanted it over a sandwich and candle light.
    Hourglasses were once made for kings.
    Is that what you are supposed to be?
    Am I entitled to be queen?
    Living in the palm of your hand,
    waiting for you to close your fingers around my thin waist at the first chance i give you.
    I am counting jagged steps through my sand.
    I am draining.
    I am empty.