SIX FEET APART

I feel their eyes weighing me down
Quicker steps quicker pulse are my reflexes
I feel their hand on my shoulder.

But we’re six feet apart.

I feel their eyes on my hips
On my ass and on my tits
Turtle neck and skirts ankle length
Mother said it’ll stop them from preying
Maybe she had a different kind of predator in mind
Because this one doesn’t take their eyes off me
I feel them breathing down my neck

But we’re six feet apart.

Rapid breaths and rapid sweats are my reflexes
They leave goosebumps on my skin
Not the good kind
Fear crystallized in my being
They haven’t even said a word to me

Maybe I’m hallucinating
Maybe it’s the fear talking
Imagining
Panicking
Maybe they’re not looking at me
Maybe they’re not waiting for me to get home so they break in and devour me
Maybe they’re not thinking of ways to deflower me
Maybe they’re not thinking of the thousand things they could do to me while I scream
and bleed
Maybe they’re not looking at me
Maybe they’re not looking at me

They’re not looking at me

The lamps on the street were asleep
The moon was crescent, half asleep
Both turning a blind eye to the evil about to transpire
The wind was cold
But it wasn’t her that caused the goosebumps on my arms
I could feel his breath on my neck

His hand on my shoulder

We were no longer six feet apart.

Bright Nwaamaka

Bright Nwaamaka is a Nigerian- part Delta, part Edo. Twenty-two years old and for over a decade has harnessed the power of the pen in ways that heal, comfort, and  understand- when it felt like society’s ears were shut to the poet's pain.  Bright hopes that these words scribbled down as an outpouring of the inner man, would make the reader feel… seen.