He asked for my phone number. He asked for my address. He asked if I loved him. He told me he loved me. He doesn’t know me, but he wants to know me. He follows close behind when I walk home from work. I can feel him staring at my legs covered with fishnet tights. He always asks me questions, not caring if they make me uncomfortable. A friend request on FaceBook? Declined. 

I lie awake in my bed. I can almost feel his gaze peering over me. The thought of his disgusting, calloused hands tracing my thighs makes me cringe. I know how he feels about me. He wants to do dirty acts with me, and he wouldn’t care if I refused. I want him to stop. I don’t want to see him ever again. I want him dead.


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