Never Smile at a Man

Do not smile.
Do not grin.
Do not let the light get in.

Do not look him in the eye.
Do not smile as you walk by.

If you do, he’ll think it’s more.
He’ll follow you from store to store.
He’ll think your mouth was made for him.
He’ll see your fear and call it sin.

He’ll say you teased.
He’ll say you led.
You’ll say no thanks. He’ll smile instead.

He’ll block your path.
He’ll raise his voice.
And tell you that you had a choice.

You smiled, you see. That made it clear—
he had the right to come too near.

Do not smile upon the train.
Don’t smile if it starts to rain.
Don’t smile in a grocery line.
Don’t smile when you’re feeling fine.

Because a smile, in his command,
is something he can twist and brand.
He’ll take it like a stepping stone.
He’ll take it till you’re not alone.

He’ll follow you.
He’ll ask your name.
He’ll laugh when you say this’s not a game.

He’ll call you bitch. He’ll call you tease.
He’ll act as though he’s owed your please.
And if you run, or try to hide—
they’ll ask why you were so unkind.

But not all men, they love to say,
as if that keeps the wolves at bay.
As if the growl inside the dark
is softened by their hallmark.

But you still learn.
And you still know.
To keep your head down when you go.

To never smile.
To never stop.
To cross the street.
To watch the clock.

To tell a friend the route you take.
To fake a call.
To look opaque.

To walk with keys between your hands.
To smile—only
when it’s planned.

And if you don’t?
You take the blame.
They say next time, don’t play that game.

But I am not a game, a glance—
a sugar-coated happenstance.
I am not hey, or what’s your name?
I’m not a spark to fan to flame.

I’m just a person walking by.
I didn’t ask. I didn’t try.
I didn’t flirt. I didn’t dare.
I didn’t want you standing there.

So here it is. I hope you can:
Never smile at a man.