They Made Room

This isn’t about exposure. Not really.

He doesn’t undress. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask for anything.

He pumps. He dresses. He shows up.

And when they stare—long enough, close enough—they begin to move.

The Shame Body was written in stillness. But not silence.

It’s not clinical. It’s not cold. It’s heat held so tightly it turns into weight.

The women don’t devour him because he begs.
They devour him because he holds still.

It started as shame. It ended as mass.
And somewhere in the middle—they made room.