The Stare



She stares at my chopped finger that I lost due to infection
She stares not at my incompatibility but at her own insecurities

He stares at my pants making me do a quick zip-check
He is staring at his intentions not at me.

She stares at my one-breast through which I feed my baby
She thinks to herself why there is no shape for other
She doesn't know I had breast cancer and have been just treated
But it's her fear she is staring at,
Not me.

He stares and stares without a single blink
He stares at my burnt face
Someone unlike him threw acid on me and gave reasons for the world to stare
He stare because he feels I am weird and scary
But he is staring at his past not me.

They all stare
And they just stare
Without even realising that one day (god forbid) they could be me.
So I walk with proud that I fought these stares and pray they never be me.


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