Still They Ask You

It’s funny.

They look at you,

Gaze into your thoughts,

Pretend they understand.

But they don’t see.

Their eyes puncture your rugged skin.

The gaze runs its fingers through your hair,

Caresses your cheek,

Brushes past your lips.

But still,

Still they ask you.

They ask you to curl your hair,

Move your feet,

Get what they say needs done,

Change.

And,

As the spit flies from their strained mouth onto my cheek,

I wipe it off.

And do exactly as they say.

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