Dear MOST Men,

I want to be heard, but the way I look makes you deaf.

You say you know me. You don't know me. You only know your idea of me.

We haven't had deep conversations. Yet you think you know me when you haven't asked a single question.

You want to sleep with me so much you won't get out of my car no matter how I hint, ask or beg. When you finally do, you're angry I made you leave and you bash my job because it means I can't give you the time you demand.

You kiss me because you can't hear "No," over the pulsing drum of the selfish animal howling inside you.

The animal that makes me afraid. So you tell me to relax and I want to slam my fist into your face but I restrain myself knowing you can hit a lot harder.

You have the power to kill me with a single blow. So I let you kiss me shoving down the urge to bite off your tongue as you plunge it down my throat making me gag.

I try to talk, to bond to give you a chance to see more than just the "pretty" but you cut me off because you want to sleep with me so damn bad and so you have to interrupt before I can finish a single sentence.

You tell me to take a compliment when you tell me you want to touch my tits or lick between my thighs because you think I'm so pretty.

Your "compliments" make me gag.

Being pretty makes me hate you because you don't treat me like an intelligent living being, instead, you treat me like I live only to be your fetish, your dream and not my own. You tell me I'm being a "Princess" when I grasp for straws of the identity you try to steal away.

You act like constantly talking about how pretty I am, means I owe you something. You think you're treating me right because you tell me I'm pretty.

Pretty isn't my identity. It isn't me. When I look in the mirror a stranger stares back.

Until I look deeper.

I wish I could find someone who looked deeper and did not go deaf.