I crossed the street in search of my campus' Panda Express

and a car rightfully yeilded.

As I passed, the car drove closer and slowed

and a young man, though older than myself, poked his head from the back window.

The man yelled, "Hey, can I have your number?"

Quickly, strongfully, I yelled "NO" and continued.

The boy laughed and the car drove away.

Throughout the entire walk my heart pounded and I mouthed the word "no" a million times.

What a great answer.

Then it hit me:



Body dismorphia.

It was all a joke and they were laughing at my seriousness.

Why would any stranger want to contact me?

What are they saying about me now?

Who will they tell and wil I ever see them again?

So, to this I conclude that the worst part of cat-calling is not the degredation of the Feminist.

The worst of it is actually inside the mind of the self-concious and the self-hated.

That's where all of the world's horrors reside.

This poem is about: 


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