When I loved eating Junk food at the
age of fourteen, I would always
visit this food joint close to my
house. It was almost always
empty, with no bedlam or
stampedes. I would place my order,
wait, cross my legs, wait, and when
my food would finally arrive, I’d
leave, feeling as if I had accomplished
something applaud-worthy in life.
Now that I am eighteen, I know that
the men behind the counter unclothe
my dignity and lay it together with the
bread in the oven to be broiled. Now
that I am more observant, I see that
this one lad always sings songs while
staring at my chest. Now, that I have become
more conscious of my body which springs
out like lilies in the summer, I wish that I
wore skirts only with frills and furbelows.
And now, I have summarized that harassment
is not just a string of filthy words spewed out from
wet, lustful lips. I have stopped eating Junk altogether.


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