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My Week

My week, was just a normal week.

 

The start of my week always begins the same.

 

Busy underground of London, crowds push and the sound of oyster cards beeping fill the air

like questions fill my mind.

What made you think your starving hands were wanted?

Who gave you the ignorance to touch my home?

Maybe it was an accident, so words are not projected

But as I look back, your hungry eyes expose you

Your smile so evident; I feel to resolve to violence,

and wipe the smug off you like I wipe away unwanted dust

The idea of it happening to one of your family members clearly does not cross your mind.

It was just a touch, I didn’t mean harm by it, lighten up lady.

Disappointment befriended with disgust engulfs my being as you allow patriarchy to escape from your mouth.


 

The  middle of my week always goes the same.

 

Workplace, professional manner present.

So when you ask me to stay longer, I think nothing of it.

I excuse that arm that went further down my back then it should have because maybe I’m thinking too much.

Maybe women complain too much.

You ask me how much I really want this job.

I tell you, I really want this job,

It’s my passion; I’ll do anything for it

 

Those last words may have been a mistake,

as your eyes now effuse predator,

and just like an animal, you too crave the weak.

Your power becoming aptitude over vulnerability.

But it won’t happen to me

,

I read about it in newspapers, I see it on the TV.

The statistics were all there.

Almost a fifth of women saying they had been harassed by their boss or an authoritative figure

And 4 in 5 not reporting it because of feelings that it would harm their relationships at work.

It was all there and you knew it.

But you still proceed to live in pretence,

like many of your friends.

 

 


 

The end of my week always ends the same.

 

      The club, I only come here to dance.

But this is when you think this is your chance.

To intentionally grab my waist as you pass behind me,

rubbing unwanted manhood on the backdoor of my house,

which remains closed to you.

Home sweet home mat laid out

but nothing is sweet about you

you see, you’re the type to not wipe your feet before you enter

so keep your filth away

you are not welcome here.



 

It doesn’t help that I also see you at home

A place and person that’s meant to be of comfort, bringing me discomfort.

We lay in bed and I am wrapped around lovers arms.

The word no escapes my mouth

And no understanding escapes from you

As coercion has become a game for you

you touch my home and I close all the doors; I close all the windows

but just like a hurricane you still manage to force inside and break me,

and it was then, that I understood, why hurricane’s were named after people.



 

but my week, was just a normal week.

-Sandy G