Street harassment is power. 

The power to feel entitled to any person you see. 

The power to whistle, gesture, and say what you want because it’s cool. 

The power to harass young girls and women just for your satisfaction. 

The power you took from me. 

Now I feel small

I feel weak

I feel afraid 

Say something! Do something! 

I hear these words from inside my brain but there’s no connection. 

No connection to my trembling breath, 

or my unstill hands, 

or the feet that refuse to stop. 

Fast. Faster. 

His presence still follows me. 

Turn. Cross the street. 

His words won’t leave me alone. 

Head down.

“Gimme a smile”

Phone out. Dial.

“Why you gotta do me like that?”

Open the door. Random store. 

Breathe. 

Breathe. 

… 

To you, it may be a compliment, a praise

“I’m just telling you that you’re beautiful” 

But somehow ‘beautiful’ doesn’t translate the same in your language. 

It’s no longer what I used to know it for. 

But rather degrading, mortifying, terrifying, discouraging, restraining

Everything except beautiful.

“Well you should’ve said something”

I’ve said a lot.

I think you’re smart enough to know that words don’t say everything.

“You know what b****, I ain’t even like yo dumb a** in the first place”

I don’t expect you to understand the dimensions of how I’m feeling

You won’t admit it to yourself. So where would I even begin?

“Hey beautiful.