Thursday, May 14, 2015


I am buying something from the shop.
He stretches his hand towards the window,
I am distracted by my thoughts,
Then a hand that brushes at the side of my jacket.
I wait for an apology,
“Whose fault is it?” He asks.
I look him in the eyes.
Who taught me to keep quiet like this?
He looks back without blinking.
I feel defiled.

I am behind him on the queue.
He gestures a lot with his hands.
Like me. Or so I think.
He throws them all over the place.
I keep my distance.
Then an elbow hits me.
It’s painful.
He doesn’t turn to look
I wait for an apology.
He stops speaking and moving his arms,
Later, he looks at my face.
I look him in the eyes.
Whose fault is it?
I feel defiled.