Thirty-two thousand four hundred and thirteen times
At least.
Most likely more
Yet my fingers typed out the numbers as though they knew
So I follow my fingers.
What is it about men and pools?
We are not here for you to look at.
“It’s too bad you have my mother’s figure.”
“How old is she? Boy, she’s really developed.”
“Eesh, look how fat she is; she needs to wear a bra.”
“You need to not wear your shorts like that, pull them up, it’s distracting.”
When the thirty-two thousand four hundred and fourteenth time happens
(and it will happen — it always does)
I will say something at that moment.
I will speak to what it means to know that we are being inspected and observed
By the new dirty old man by the pool, (yes, becoming what he mocked)
As to whether or not our figures are pleasing to look at
As to whether or not our tits are properly held aloft by fabric and wire
As to whether or not we are slender and lithe
As to whether or not your mother had a figure good enough
As to whether or not we are being sexualized by our last remaining twenty-three chromosomes donor
As to whether or not we are enough to be proudly presented as proper progeny.
This meat suit of mine,
My biological mech,
This jumble of cells and magic
This house that holds
Whatever it is that I am
Is not your concern.
Uninvited comments
Will be caught and thrown into a pauper’s grave.
Let your eyes rest elsewhere, old man
We are not here for you to look at.