F calls me ‘girl of the tiny perfect nose’, as an endearment of sorts. He wants to know why I am so guarded.
“It’s not that I hide,” I tell him, “I’m just not used to being seen.”
“What do you mean by being seen?” he asks. “Is it strange that a man wants to get to know you and not just look at you?”
“I dont think I am the type of woman that men want to look at,” I answer, “so I remember not to mistake eyes for hands.”
Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women: kitchen of love, bedroom of grief, bathroom of apathy.
Sometimes, the men, they come with keys; sometimes they come with hammers.
– Warsan Shire