To: the guy who cat-called me,

Does it make you feel big, like a skyscraper—so tall,

to call out to random women

on these dirty, city, streets?

You say, “Hey baby, won’t you back that ass up?”

And I say nothing, but my cheeks grow red, blood red.

My palms sweat and shake like when the earth quakes,

and I want to ask you, would you say that to

your mom? Your sister?

Would you even say that to your dog?

I’m sure your answer is no.

Congratulations, you deserve a gold star!

You have made me feel as small as a

ladybug on a blade of grass.

You have made me feel insecure and hyperaware,

and I know that it was just a “compliment.”

The cars rush past on both sides of the street

and they don’t see what I see in that moment.

I can hear my cheeks growing hot like a

pot of water that is boiling over onto the stovetop,

and I can taste your disgusting words like the

bad aftertaste of a cheap, bottom shelf whiskey.

Your words are in no way a compliment.

They are a slap in my face, a chilling

reminder that I am no more than

an object to you. I am no more valuable

than your collection of moldy fruit in the fridge.

And that, sir, is where you are wrong.

So this is me telling you to go fuck yourself.



Women everywhere, but especially me


About kscoughlin2013

I'm a full time college student studying English Literature and Secondary Education, a part time dreamer, and occasionally I write a decent poem or take an okay picture.
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