The first time a strange man groped me, it was in the afternoon. It was a busy street. There were about twenty people watching. There were about twenty people who stood still and didn’t blink an eye when it happened.
The first time a strange man touched my breast, it was through three layers of sweaters and I was barely an A cup. There was little to grab onto but he seemed delighted anyway. It was a few seconds before I could stagger back and quickly walk away.
The first time a strange man ran his hand over my body, I was angry and humiliated and scared. I went back home and washed my body for hours, I tried to scrub the skin off my bones but I learned to live with it. And my soul, though bruised, remained intact.
You, on the other hand, never even touched me. You never ran your hands over my undeveloped, pre-adolescent body to abuse me. You never stood in front of me in the middle of a busy road in the afternoon sun.
You simply looked at me. And it’s funny how no strange man with his eager, groping hands can touch me in any way that could compare to what you did. To how your look raped my soul.