by Tori D’Amico

Margaret Atwood, please don’t make me kill the voyeur

by Tori D’Amico

You were right about the keyhole all the eyes inside my head but you didn’t say they’re all her guests, the 13-year-old girl watching, critiquing, hoping to please.

We see the same problem in the mirror cosmopolitan and soft porn got to her and she was here first with the “he” shaped tumor eating away my chance at an unseen moment

but I know better— there is no unseen to be had, the voyeur is the reason I dress like this. Skinny jeans, push up bras, matching lace underwear insatiable even when they’ve all turned their heads there she is. Flip your hair, she says,

don’t bite your nails, arch your back, laugh quieter I want to be mad at her, to be good enough, not to choke on a compliment, but tonight let her rest peacefully insecure. Unawareness runs out with eighth grade feminism and I will not tell her she is lucky enough not to know yet.