To think that all I am at times is someone’s used glance,
a used glance who is way too used to this particular circumstance.
I check once and twice to see,
who this glance may be.
And I see a man looking very closely,
more than once need be,
to check out a particular part of me.
He keeps up his steady gaze,
welcomed or not,
I begin to feel claustrophobic.
His gaze subjecting,
dissecting,
so close I lose space,
stifled by the steady gaze of his face.
Once the train arrives at his stop,
he takes his leave – finally I can breathe.
As he leaves,
he holds the hand of his girl in tow,
does she even know?
Does she know the wander of his gaze?
Does she know the extent of its graze?
To think,
that he believes he has freedom,
to use his glance however it may graze or invade one’s public space.
Disgusts me.
From my head to my toes,
from my skin to my clothes.
I feel obsolete.
To feel like one’s object of intense gaze,
is to lose all sense of ownership,
in one sweeping moment.
I scrambled to keep it all together,
as his greedy gaze continued to vacuum up all skin and bone of me.
I kept my eyes on my pages for the tail end of the ride,
ignoring his invasion,
as he continued to wolf down every last bit he intended to make his fill,
and though I may be alone now,
I believe he’s there still.
Hay's Corner 