DON’T.

By: Melissa Demirel

Do you see her walking down the street?

Do you want to touch her?

Do you hear the pitter-patter of her feet,

Smell the perfume in her hair?

Do you want to talk to her, to greet

Her with your version of flair,

Your version of a complimentary meet?

Do you want to place “dat ass” on some chair,

Ensure she knows her place beneath you, on a seat?

Don’t.

Do you see soft, delicate lips, so sweet,

Swaying hips that whisper, “Do you dare?”

Think the swish of her entire being, so neat,

Beckons you to her, anytime, anywhere,

That her eyes, locked on the ground during her fleet,

Secretly wish you to touch her all over, everywhere,

That her body would look delightful atop a sheet,

That her ears long for a catcall, right then and there?

Don’t.

She’s just trying to get home after a couple classes.

She’s just trying to get home, safe and sound.

She’s trying to live her life among the masses,

Among perverts like you unfortunately often found.

She doesn’t need a whistle that clashes

Against her cold ear, above the lonely ground.

Don’t think she’s batting her lashes

At you; she’s hoping you’re just around

Trying to get home like she is, with a foot that crashes

On cement on a dark night, without an intimidating sound.

So don’t.

Just don’t.

Walk on, keep walking on, down the street.

She doesn’t want you around her anywhere.

She’s hurrying the pitter-patter of her feet

And trying to mask the perfume in her hair.

She doesn’t want your version of a civil meet,

She doesn’t want you to go ahead and dare.

She wants to go and grab a bite to eat

Without hungry eyes wandering over her, bare.

She’s thinking, “Don’t follow me down the street.

I don’t you know you; you don’t care

To know me before you see me as a treat.

I’m tired of your whistles, catcalls, shouts, your stare.

Leave me alone. I’m not skin to bruise for your teeth.

Don’t tease me, just go and please, please grow a pair.

Don’t follow. I’m a woman and not a piece of meat.

Don’t.”