A Man's Gaze

They look at me
as if hunger has hands.
As if my body were a door
already unlocked.

Their eyes crawl,
slow and certain,
measuring softness like ownership,
like something promised
before I learned the word no.

I shrink inside my own skin,
a house with broken locks,
windows breathing strangers breath.
I want to step out of it,
leave this body hanging
like a dress I never chose.

They say I am good
but only when I am quiet,
when my voice folds itself small
and sits obediently in my throat.
Only good when I smile.
Only good when I listen.

But disobedience has consequences.
Their gaze turns sharp.
Their kindness grows teeth.
Love becomes a warning
spoken without sound.

Their hands feel heavier
when fear cannot scream.
The air thickens and suddenly
my lungs forget
how to be loud.

I learn stillness
the way prey learns shadows,
survival shaped like surrender.

And afterward
their gaze lingers, satisfied,
while I gather pieces of myself
from the floor of my own mind.

I scrub at invisible fingerprints,

reddening my skin,
washing until the water runs cold,
until even my reflection
looks like a stranger I pity.

I want to tear away this skin,
peel off every stare,
every word pressed into me
like fingerprints made of shame.