I, Object

On the treatment of women by some kinds of men.

For Rob.

While your thoughts still linger on my lips
your eyes have wandered to my hips;
straying, slowly, over my chest-
perhaps the part that you liked best.

Twice your eyes caressed my legs-
the sorry look of one who begs.
My backside, too, you studied well,
as if afflicted by some spell.

Even my neck is taken in;
inch by inch you consume my skin.
Now once more at my breasts you stare-
in your mind I’m sure they’re bare

But in your hurry to dissect
did you stumble on my intellect?
It seems I am a shell to you,
yet you forget- I am a person too.