Is there something worse than the feeling of being objectified by a man?

Standing there as he salivates to the thought of how your skin might feel in his hands.

Tell him to take his penis somewhere else.

Your insides cringing as he rubs his crotch against your thigh, but watching yourself let him. Hoping it might be fun. Telling yourself it might be, maybe, maybe it won't be as bad as you told yourself it would be.

The emptiness that stains when he pulls away and you realize that you were his object, a toy, something a child drops on the floor when it ceases to amuse his short attention span.

Feeling him strip you of your identity, the things upon which you build your soul and sense of existence, significance evaporated. You are a canyon, sides dried up and cracking under the blazing fire of a relentless Son.

Could you ever paint on a canvas the depth of such a degredation? Could you express to someone else the burning in the back of your head, the sickening feeling in your stomach, the anger that could defrost an ice cube? Could you look at him and be able to move him with your words, strangle him with the frustration you feel?

Could you ever resurrect the self-respect lost in that moment of time, repair the singe in your cloth, disinfect the festering wound? Will you always see that scar in the morning, even if it's not visible?

You know what feels good? Hitting something really hard with a baseball bat. And then listening to it shatter beneath your wrath.

I hate that I've smiled when I've thought about the attention you gave me. I hate that I thought it was sexy, that I felt flattered by your insult. I hate the feeling that hides behind my rib cage and tries to seep through my dehydrated eyes when I remember who you are and what you meant.

I hate that you say hi to me, and that you didn't and don't think twice. And I hate that I say hi back, feeling for the moment of contact as if nothing has happened inside of me.

And I hate the inevitability of it all.