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prey
(Can I help you with something)
“I'm just looking at my beautiful future wife.”
She was 15, sitting in a gift shop far from home. She left before she could hear the sex in his words.
(Would you like your receipt)
“Only if it has your number on it.”
He was working.
(Thank you)
“You get an extra piece of candy, you need to stay warm.”
She was trick-or-treating, a faerie in the snow. His eyes were on her breasts. He was wrinkled, she was 16.
(STOP LEAVE ME ALONE)
She slapped him. He laughed. The class watched.
Tears fell from her eyes. Her young peers, 12 and 13, snickered. She felt his hands roaming, fingers grabbing groping gaining- though he was feet away.
(What would you like)
Silence. He was groping himself.
He was just doing his job. He couldn't leave. He couldn't do anything. Helpless behind the register, barely an adult.
(Discomfort)
“Are these the German students?” He was rubbing her back, fingers on her bra.
She was at a highschool volleyball game. She didn't know him.
(Hi)
His hand crept, a stalking predator, down beyond her back but above her thighs. “Hi.”
She was his student.
(Confusion)
“Here to pick up your cotton picking money?”
Her brown legs worked under the long, white skirt she was wearing for the first time to school. The dots didn't connect until he was long gone. She was 13. What was she supposed to do?
(Relief- shortlived)
“Thanks for telling.”
She was in seventh grade. She'd finally come forward. It happened again.
(Peace)
“How much do you cost?”
He was walking through the halls of his highschool, wearing a skirt.
(Faith)
“Your Sunday best is too seducing.”
“You're a wh*re for walking around church like that.”
She was wearing a sundress. He was bent and wheezing while youth shone on her skin.
(Walking faster)
He followed her all the way to her driveway in the dark of the night.
She was coming home from work, listening to her book as her heart raced. Her fingers twitched for the pepper spray that wasn't there.
(Panic)
“It's okay.”
“No one needs to know.”
“This is your fault, not mine.”
“You should be more careful.”
She was on a date.
(NO. WAY. OUT.)
“You're worthless.”
“Tell anyone and I'll kill you.”
“Nobody cares.”
“Take it, you'll be fine.”
She was his sister.
(S U R V I V E)
“You want it.”
“You're just being a tease.”
SO MUCH SCREAMING.
HE'S PUNCHING, CORNERING, COMING CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER CLOSER CLO
She was a freshman. She had liked him. Now she was a deer in the maw of a sheep no more. Behind the freezer. Shotgun. Aim. He fled. She couldn't even remain friends with his little sister. She hid the bruise, told her parents it was her steer. The truth was hidden, buried, burned.
(Betrayal)
“I don't understand how you could just drop my brother.”
His sister doesn't understand. The girl with the bruised face prays she never will. She will.
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So, there's a story behind this poem. My girlfriend and I went to Grand Rapids, Michigan, which is two hours from our home, to a cute little shop called Oh Hello Co - which I highly recommend visiting. The products are sweet and the staff sweeter. It is also women and queer owned. Anyway, back to what I was saying. We went down to this little shop in Grand Rapids with her mom because she was going to be the MC for the poetry event the shop and its joint shop were hosting. We both intended to read as well. As we waited in the shop with a few other talking women, my girlfriend's mom was getting us food, a man came in. None of us really gave him a second glance, assuming he was there for the event. Then he asked if it was a "Bible study." The owners responded no, asking if she could help him with anything, and he went on a rant. When my girlfriend and I turned to look, he saw her, and things turned predatory. I, for one, was taken over by rage, hearing the filthy words he said about her. I took her hand and we went to the back room of the shop as the owner called the police and he finally left.
After the ordeal, the event went marvelously. We both had so much fun and met so many amazing women. After though, I was still shaken. My girlfriend, the nonchalant saint she is, wasn't as bothered. I, per usual, turned to poetry to let out my frustrations.
Originally, I intended for this poem to circle slowly around this train of events. Other similar experiences flooded my memories, as this was far from the first time a man behaved this way to either of us. Then, I realized, staring at my blinking cursor, that I wanted this to be bigger. Bigger than me, bigger than my partner. Everyday, women and feminine trans men are subject to harassment by cishet men. This is an experience we all share, so why not use it?
And so I reached out to women around me, as well as my best friend, who is a trans man that is frequently harassed by predators, and I asked for their experiences and permission to use them. I decided to keep everyone anonymous, as these are experiences so many of us can relate to.
This is just a few of us joining hands and banding together, speaking up about the objectification of women and trans men by our cishet male counterparts. This is us refusing to tolerate this mistreatment. This is us offering sympathy to anyone struggling because of similar experiences. You are not alone. You are brave. You are capable. Don't let your voice be silenced.