I am always watching.
Peering through windows, peeping around the side of the house, even a flash of a glance out across the street before I collapse into bed and turn out the lights and pretend that was what I wanted to do.
Watchful, waiting, convinced of disappointment.
And what else should I deserve, to what else will I give credence when it happens ?

If I were now to display the badges of my empowerment-
to flip fresh-cut hair, wear the come-hither and let lilting, hearth-warming laughter fill rooms-
Would they believe- and would I believe- that I was secure ?
But then,
I know that when the world meets my stare with interested eyes,
I blink, long-lashed, abashed.