Slut

It must be my imagination. Or is it a curse.
There is a man who keeps following me. In the day.
It’s like he had seen me for the first time. At night.
He is a hungry animal. He prowls me.

I cannot cast him aside. I walk to work in the morning.
He sees the skin behind my knees. He walks with me.
There is a brief conversation. He wants to know me.
I get on the train and leave him. His eyes on my legs.

I sit at the desk. He stands behind me.
He sees the skin on my thighs. He breathes heavy.
There is a brief conversation. He wants to know me.
His hand descends to my knees. My heart darts.

Is it a daydream. But it feels so real.
The same man every morning. With many names.
But nothing is different. His eyes, his hands, his fingers.
His lips and the warmth of his breath. A phantasy.

I come to the cafe each night. He is there.
Just before I walk out he comes. There is a brief conversation.
He strokes my arm and I laugh. His hand runs upon me.
Smooth and warm and I blush. He walks with me.

Each night he has different name. All else is the same.
Is it my imagination. Or a nightmare.
My breasts tremble in his hands. He licks and sucks them.
He rides me, naked, and thrusts. Up to my neck.

In the morning I pass by the market. He sees me.
I pick up some olives and he acquaints himself. A new name.
The old woman selling cheese smiles. I walk away shyly.
The man of many faces haunts me. He knows me.

A familiar flatter against my breast. In the train.
He slips his fingers between my legs. He sighs.
Tonight he will fuck me. He will cry.
This body is no curse. This is a blessing.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 7, 2014

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