Infuriated by unnecessary touching endured by women everyday, Louisa Keogh empowered herself to turn her anger into poetry.
Apologies often fall from the lips of those who value their personal space.
A defender of not wanting the air to be invaded by foreign species,
A woman is looked down on for being too sensitive; surely you understand that your body does not belong to you?
The body becomes a live wire when it’s circumference is threatened, it’s shape prey to those with eyes that weigh heavily.
When you can feel this weight,
A physical touch becomes magnified and overpowering.
A brush becomes a strike when anticipation left the house with her that morning.
“You’re very jumpy” becomes synonymous with those who feel it is their right to place
hands upon whomever they choose.
“Do not touch me” a sure way to become a pariah, an overreaction to a friendly gesture.
What you do not know is that I have been anticipating this touch since you entered my space,
Peripheral vision becomes another sense in which your hands become weapons.
Weapons used to subtlety diffuse the hysterical woman.
This woman who had taken a deep breath while padding her mind to fit herself,
Never mind a Darwinian soul who thinks it’s his duty to talk her down off the ledge of bodily rights.
There is no room at this inn, but plenty of fight in her.