In Lieu of Flowers

Dinner is served

i hate when they look at me as if i dressed for them

unashamed eyes
piercing through my clothes
x-rays scanning between my thighs
owning my body for a second
wet dreams of false hopes

i hate doubting their kindness
when they paint me as a damsel in distress
their objectifying thoughts so loud
they vibrate through their eyes
travelling until the sound waves hit my ears
as if they wanted me to know
that depraved imagination sees no frontiers

i hear their stomachs growl
when the top of my legs show
i see them swallow the excess of saliva
when i'm not wearing a bra
mysterious female body
instrument of fantasy
hidden under too much clothes
yet not showing enough
to quench their thirst
their hunger is our curse

what a fucking tease
her only purpose is to please
and when my skin is showing
i hear echos of their mothers calling

dinner is served