You shout out the window

as you drive alongside

you lean greedily in

followed by

lustful eye saying,

“but that ass, girl!”

across intersection

as I push my way

through final mile

after seven that day:

“work it

for me!”

singes hot in my ear.

For you?

Fuck you.

Let me make

something quite clear:

Nothing

no, nothing

that I do

is for you.

Nothing

no, nothing

I choose to wear

or the curve

of my body

or the pant

of my breath

is for anyone but

me

and my own

sanity, yet.

I move through

these streets

the wind

in my hair:

it is all

meant for me

not for you

and your stare.