Honey

A guy walks by with girth in his stride whistling, as my curved hips sway by,

"Honey, you look like a tasty snack!"

I recoil as the skin on the back of my neck cringes at his chauvinist ways.

I take a step back and look at him with a glint in my eyes,

"Honey, I am no snack. I'm not even a nibble. I'm a 7-course meal at a restaurant you would never be able to afford and not just because of the money you make, but because you will never have enough respect or audacity to step one little toe in.

You will never get to see the delicate, graceful edges of the plate that is always clean and may not be perfect but always treated as such and never except anything less.

Honey, I am no snack or even a tall glass of water I'm something much more valuable. Something that has been taken bites out of and left for garbage, to know, I am much more than a snack, honey. And you would need to do a lot more than saving your money to even think about whistling at me again.

So, next time you get ‘hungry’ when you look at me or any young girl for that matter, take a good long look in the mirror and ask yourself if you’re worthy of something so delicate and yet so fierce with pride, because maybe Hooters is more up your speed. Honey."

I walk away with grace in each step,

letting my milky chocolate hair flow across my shoulders,

not looking back or caring what he had to say next,

as I smile to myself with pride and self-worth,

not letting any man’s ego knock me to the floor.