Dear no-man from the street

While I walk through the city at day time, I secretly enjoy your gaze in my body. It reminds me that I am concrete. The molecules form some cells and the cells form my eyes, my arms, my legs, my ass. I recognize myself in your no-men’s eyes. I like gazing back to you, perforar tu retina and try to perceive some feeling. A glimpse of humanity.
My heartbeat increases for a while, as if I was smoking a cigarette. As if some inexistent order suddenly broke up. Then I feel dirty. I go to the bookshop and I buy a feminist essay. Violet. Cliché. Cash, please. I like to feel the dirtiness of the notes. I like to lick my fingers to feel it. I like to be ashamed of what I do. I hate feeling the other’s shame.
I think I should throw up at the idea of this no-man putting his gaze on me. Putting his blame on me. But his eyes are a mirror of recognition. Sometimes I secretly hope he’d fuck me. I feel bad at that feeling and I smoke a cigarette. I throw up.