On the night of August 24, a man masturbated to me on the subway.
People I told:
That night, the internet. Then, a friend,
in confidence. Two weeks later, five or six
at a bar, some I barely knew.
Words I want to put back into my mouth:
I’m not even that hot.
People I did not tell: The police. The train car. My roommates.
I stared him down, if that makes a difference.
He looked south, across the water.
You can see Lady Liberty there, in the daytime.
I was so worried he’d start again.
At the bar, finally, someone,
Why didn’t you—?
The week after, I stopped
masturbating. Writing. Worrying
how to walk down the street.
Avoiding strangers’ eyes.