I feel them watching me.

Voyeurs, perched at their window sills,

their eyes dissecting me,

peeling back my skin.

I feel them prodding at my insides,

judging my blackened lungs and

my extra soft, deflated heart.

There is a man in my closet.

He creeps around while I’m out.

He lingers behind doors and around corners.

He is always watching.

Waiting.

On my way home from the market,

I pass four different men

who are all thinking about killing me.

I see it in their eyes.

I keep my knife tucked in my sleeve

for a speedy retrieval.