'The Real Bogeyman' by Heather Haigh

       The real bogeyman wore whiskers and smelled of tobacco or cheap whisky. Uncle or Grandpa visited at Christmas; hugged us on in his lap — tight lest we squirm, tighter till we did. Girls: sugar and spice and all things nice.
    
       The real bogeyman was a conjurer with feathery fingers and a bag of secrets, hungry eyes and a comforting whisper.  Good girl. Bad girl. Good girl. Bad girl.  One touch, that felt good, felt bad — one lifetime of shame.

       The real bogeyman comes via bus or by train, in office or bar, behind the uniform, beside an ever-smiling wife. His brush is an accident, the lingering touch our delusion.
       Nice arse. Can't take a compliment?  
       Show us your tits. Can't take a joke?
       Don't forget to smile darlin'. 
       We remember to pretend.

       He just wants...
       We know what he wants.
       Why aren’t we fixing it?

       His sisters smile, brush down tweed skirts and kick with sensible shoes.
       Everyone knows the streets aren't safe at night. Did you see what she was wearing?   
       That place - distasteful of course, but men’s needs... What do you mean, cannon fodder?
       We remember telling ourselves we'd be safe if...

        The real bogeyman hides behind fake accounts, laces venom into tweets, broadcasts demands on Reddit, pours scorn into Tinder. His right to play us, lay us. Sometimes slay us. For digital posterity.
        So we'll never forget.

        The real bogeyman holds power in his fists but some things are too difficult to police, too complicated. He reminds us not all men are like that. We twist our wedding bands, cradle our sons, swallow our pills, and say we know.  
He tells us misogyny is no hate crime.
We remember girls must play nice.