Standing in front of her closet trying to figure out what to wear. She has to consider your opinion. How others might see her-a slut, a nun, a girl asking for it, a girl who needs some fun, a mess, a rebel, a punk, shy. What does she look like to the outside world. For she is wearing clothes.
She walks the street in that outfit. Alone. Going about her day. Trying to meet a friend. Sitting on the bus, waiting for a train. Heading out for the night. The eyes look at her, the voices cat call her. Judging her for she is wearing those clothes.
Wearing a skirt above the knee because she can’t wear long skirts-she’s only 5’4″. She covers up but that doesn’t change anything, cause genetics have giving her boobs that hit her in her face when she runs. A distraction, because she is wearing clothes.
Told to take it as a compliment, but all she feels is the need to apologise for their mistakes. Their mistakes of her clothes, their eyes going up and down her like she is some piece of meat. A touch from a stranger trying to be nice but she is feeling uncomfortable. She wants to scream don’t touch me. She wants to tell them she isn’t some animal in the zoo, or theirs to have. But she kept quite for she new it would only be on her.
Blaming her, because it’s her fault she was wearing clothes.