(Un?)Defeated

I've heard stories of girls who waited past midnight.
I've heard the tales of women who won't leave.
I've heard the alto smothered by the tenor,
the woman behind the man.

The woman behind the man.

I've heard my friends ringtone at two in the morning.
I've heard uneasy silence at the end of a phone call.
I've heard conversations he didn't want to be heard.

I've been followed and watched,
I've been the unwilling fantasy of much, much older men,
I've been the one to walk on the outside of the footpath to take the yells.
I've been the recipient of words and images and sounds better left for dead.

My friends and I shouldn't need protecting
There shouldn't be a reason.
Get your dick in your pants and your tongue in your mouth
and keep far away from us.

I don't want phone calls or bruises,
or sweet words or yells.
I don't want to hold her shaking hand
after you went after her again.

I want you gone.
I want you jailed.
I want you dead.

If my hands weren't shaking so much, you would be.