You say, you want to – have to - protect me.
I say, just don’t harm me.
Just don’t attack me.
Just don’t sabotage me,
my health, my well-being,
my grace, my dignity
and my feelings.

Those who want to help me, you say,
are the ones who secretly hurt me.

The people who pay me – you say, they disrespect me.
The people who protect me – you say, they coerce me.
The people who hire me – you say, they degrade me.
The people who rent to me – you say, they exploit me.
The people who inform me – you say, they use me.
The people who steady my business – you say, they despise me.
The people who cover me – you say, they drag me.

You say: Trust me. Rely on me. I am here to help.
I merely asked you not to harm me.

Why should I find strength in the harsh spheres of tinder, but not in the soft sheets of hedonistic prayer?
Why should I want the crown of the saint mother, if I always see her depicted crying – pleading - begging?

Does this poor lady even know what an orgasm is?

“Respect yourself!”, you scream at me in disgust.
I am aware by “respect” you mean to take your words as an authority.
To equate my self-image with your judgment. To see myself through your eyes…
Lonely, tainted, abused... used.

How’s about no?!

I see you slipping in and out of an utter rage, tamed at times with a wave of daze,
leaving you, the self-titled better one with your plea, rejected by someone you would never want to be.

“It’s ok”, I say, “I don’t wish to be you either.”
It’s not an insult. It’s a peace offer. Or at least, some kind of détente.
I’m not shooting at you. Don’t point at me. We can just be like we are and...

“I am here to HELP!”, you insist, clinch your fist and throw a hissy fit.

I start to become afraid.
How can you help me, if you don’t care what I need?

I need… to help myself. I need work. I need money. I need medicine. I need hormones. I need to support my children. I need to sustain my addiction. I need to cover for my chronic ills. I need to pay my bills. I need to free myself from capitalism's burdens. I need to right the wrongs the system has carved on my soul. I need to feel that my body is for me, not just there to be consumed. I need to feel my worth is not dependent on a single man’s view. I need to feel strong where patriarchy tells me I’m weak.
I need to break free and breathe.
I need to be safe, whilst I satisfy my needs.

You say: You will be safe in the dark, in the distance,
where hands only reach to grip, not to fondle.
Where eyes expect to oversee gore and violence.
Where the “good people” don’t look, but still always find their way.

You say: You will be safe once you got deported.
Or when you tire under minimum wage,
when your body aches for someone else’s pay,
but with clothes on.

Children starving. But with clothes on.
Elders in pain. But with clothes on.
Mothers still beaten. But with clothes on.
Mostly…

Only when my clothes are on, do you think the abuse is not my fault.
Only when my clothes are off, am I nothing, but some meat luring in wolves.
I shake my head. I cry.
I ache. I want to hide.
You see my pain. Your anger fades.
“Let me help you!”, you say.
I look up, and I see the hope in your eyes,
maybe now, you think, I’ll understand what and why…

“Just. Don’t. Harm. Me!”, I reply.