She senses their rapacious scrutiny,
Foul. Satiating. Lurking in shadows.
Shifting through windowless workspaces,
Treading softly behind the treadmills,
Tracking her through pet stores, the park,
The bars and boutiques, banks, and the beach.
No place is secure, nowhere is safe.
Not home in her garden, not even in her grave.
They’re persistent, you see.
These creatures. These monsters. These creeps.
These terrible, twisted, tyrannical things,
Captives of their paleolithic postures,
Seekers of forbidden treasures. Entitled.
Victims of their own inconsequential egos,
Searching for worship, searching for obeisance,
Seeking unearned and unwarranted validation.
She tries to escape.
She wraps herself in dull, gray fabrics.
She travels in packs.
She speaks softly, she shouts, she screams.
She drinks only water.
She makes herself ugly; she hides her face.
She tries to be invisible.
She clearly says, “No.”
But the monster still does what all monsters do.
It eats.
It is her fault.