I remember your faces. Your hands. Your words. Your eyes. Your “jokes”. Your entitlement. Your nearly-masked rage. I remember your magical thinking that “we’d shared a moment” and your attempts at damage control to ensure you weren’t discovered. I remember getting ready for work, trying for the umpteenth time to dress for success without seeming too sexy. Calculating how to be confident enough to get the right kind of promotion-worthy attention but not too confident to entice you. I remember wondering when you’d take your hands off me. Or when you’d just back away. When you’d stop talking. Or leering. Or seeing me as yours. And then there are all the times I’ve nearly forgotten, so normalized they became mundane.
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