dead eyes

I've learned to look at people with dead eyes:

it's an acquired trait, a slackness at the corners.

my eyes droop, and my mouth droops,

and I look out from a shell, expressionless.

in a way I think it keeps me safe.

I've wandered the bad neighborhoods, alone and on drugs,

and I've never been raped, barely been assaulted --

(barely, she says indifferently, thinking of the gun in her face,

as if it's so matter of fact

because it is so matter of fact.)

and I have looked men in the eye and seen the recognition,

that there is nothing they can take from me,

and they left me alone, loosened their grip on my bicep.

I registered their disappointment:

they didn't want to fuck me,

only to own me, subjugation,

and I got away only because there is nothing here to have.