Why I No Longer Hug Men

 I used to hug men—

soft-shouldered, soul-split, smiling,
as if my arms were extensions
of mercy.

I used to offer embrace
like it was bread at a feast,
not knowing some hands
came not to share,
but to take.

They said I led them on,
because I was kind.
Because I smiled.
Because I gave warmth
to a world that never gave it to me.

But I have learned—

That a hug, to a hungry man,
isn’t always comfort.
It is currency.
It is an invitation
he forged in his mind
and signed with my silence.

Now I save my softness
for the women who do not misread it,
the children who do not claim it,
the friends who do not twist it
into a transaction.

I no longer hug men
because I refuse to be blamed
for what they imagine.
For what they want.
For what they’re missing
in their own mirror.

You will not accuse me
of seduction
for showing basic humanity.
You will not wrap my boundaries
in guilt.

I still smile.
I still speak with sweetness.
But my arms stay folded—
not in bitterness,
but in brilliance.
Not in fear,
but in fire.

And when the right man comes—
he will not flinch at the wait.
He will not beg for access.
He will stand,
whole,
honest,
honoring the fortress
that was built
brick by bloody brick.

Until then—

I no longer hug men.
I hug myself.