Not A Stranger At All Poem by Hershe Moore

Sometimes...
it's not a stranger at all,
The violator... perpetrator,
He's on the prowl!
Nobody seems to notice his hunting eyes but me.
He's seeking,
choosing frail over birthing hips,
Picking pouty pleas over experienced lips.
Innocence over rejection,
begging cries from cringing insides,
above submissive thighs.
Barren land beseeched by foreign exploration,
Naive is no longer,
Eyes lacking adoration for the norm.
Torn,
silenced by the sheets.
A misfit in ones own flesh,
Generational curses complete.
I murder you with my stares,
Practicing to love for forgiveness sake,
Taking on a conditioned norm,
vowing to escape.
You molest the souls whose eyes recall...
Sometimes...
It's not a stranger at all