You Oughta Know

Thrice, in the last two days, have I been approached by a man in a car, as I'm walking down the street in jeans, sneakers, t-shirt, hoodie, saying "Can I get your number?".

Men whom I've never met calling me "Baby" and "Mami" as if those were the only roles I played, though most certainly not to them.

Why?

What misguides these men to think they'll win my heart, courting me through a car window?

Do they even want my heart?

No. Nor do I want theirs.


The way I hear some men talk about women, who would want a woman?
Bitches, Bitches, Bitches, Bitches.

Who would want to be a woman? Whores. Skanks. Sluts. Bitches. Meat.

Always wanting your money.

Always wanting your package.

We're open 24/7 like a convenience store if, in return, you'll guarantee us some conveniences.

"Save your breath, Sir, You may need it; I most certainly don't."

When you expel that breath to shout for me, you rob me of my own.

All I become is an inanimate object with a "tight ass" and a "great rack"; Clothes are "tight" and "racks" hold clothes.

Can my clothes be bought off of this rack?

Not for any retail price, and most certainly at no discount.

...Unless of course, I'm damaged goods, then, by all means, I'm yours.


Was it a tight squeeze into my jeans?

Papi, you'll never know.