be seen, and to be acknowledged. As if I couldn't be fully sure that I existed until they stared at me, and had assessed me on their arbitrary scale. Attuned to vulnerability and the likelihood of frozen compliance, they skewed younger and towards those who had to smile. Though they had words for any woman who wanted them. To empower myself beyond these sad facts — the knowledge that they saw me as a stack of pleasing body parts rather than a human — have a nice day! – I turned it into a competitive sport, of which I was lone judge, spectator and commentator. And look now, here they come — swing and leer, boys, swing and leer — my money was on the younger — but now the more experienced player takes the lead — can they equal their previous — their triumphant entitlement, their winning misogyny — yes! Goal! All losers though, no winners.
For forever, I'd felt like prey. The formula for success on my part was simple. A façade of complicity, a curtain of indifference. Though you see it — this, this right here — this is not my true face. No-one likes to see a miserable woman, do they? How confusing it must be to find that we're not grateful, not aware of how lucky we are to be seen and winked at and allowed to keep on existing, whilst hungry eyes appraise us like a meal deal on a shelf. All these poisonous drips make an ocean, eventually. Even if you know it; even if you can see what nurtures men into these land grabs, these pathetic drips of dominance. After some shifts — walking, talking, smiling, laughing – I felt like I'd drowned. Salt in my lungs, hate in my hair. The breath I released was blackstained and heavy.