Photo by Charles Nyiha
Why do you look at me expectantly, as if I should be thankful that your gaze runs over me?
Why do they congratulate me for his attentions, as if he were an exam I had passed?
Why is a man the mark of my success, when my best friend is not?
Why does the lady over there shrink as if they own her joy?
Why do you look at me as if my chapel should be at your feet?
Why do you look at me, years on, as if my eyes should still be wet from crying over you?
Why does she seem a foreigner in her own body?
Why does she reject breath?
Why do you look at me as if there is something on my body I should be upset about?
Why do they think that I found life’s magic in your eyes? Have they not seen my mother?
Why do you look behind as you walk away? Do you expect me to follow you?
Why do you think that she is still in me?
What do you think she was doing, when even though her hands were tied behind her back her clothes were disappearing?
Should I rejoice at your desire?
Be thankful for your consideration?
No, bless you.
I, my dear, am ungrateful.