Twenty of them

There are twenty of them.
I counted them once.
Blue skin, twitchy veins
lurching on my couch,
study table, inside my closet.
They follow me in shower.
Climb my body, undo my clothes.
I resist. But they are too many.
Those hundred dead tips
hunger for the mark. They celebrate
scratching, pinching, grabbing
my flesh. They move inside me.
My blood dilutes in water,
draining the echoes of my screams.

My skin is brown, chocolate brown.
Lips - pink, hair - dusky. Not black.
Smile - perfect. Eyes - wide beautiful.
I have youthful gait, tender bosom,
nearly neat body. See my curves?
I grew into them. I wrap a robe.
Retreat in my shell. Avoid your
gender. Yet somehow I am on
display. Perhaps the walls are
see-through. I'm jailed in your gaze.
Your stares strip me naked.
They scan my raw inches.
They see me. They come everyday.
There are twenty of them.