When men talk to me, they look at my chest. It doesn’t matter if I wear a turtleneck. I am being undressed in their minds. If I wore a trash bag, they’d probably be all the more grateful. Plastic is easier to rip through, anyhow. My teacher told us to make sure not to wear low cut tops during examinations. She’d seen with her own eyes, she said, male invigilators peering down shirts under the guise of looking at exam scripts. Thank you. I will remember. I went to buy soup at the hawker centre and the man asked if I wanted milk in my soup. I shook my head no. His colleague said something in dialect. I understand dialect. He doesn’t know I do, thinks I’m a silly teen who’s forgotten her roots, the sam sui women, the orang asli. He says, she doesn’t need the milk, and nods towards my breasts. Both of them turn to stare. I stare back. They meet my gaze and look away, ashamed. I know he knows I understand. He asks me if I do. I say yes, and he hands me my food in silence. I walk away and wonder if they’re looking at my ass. I walk faster. They weren’t embarrassed because of their thoughts or the way their eyes strayed. They were embarrassed because they were caught. I wear mostly black now, to draw attention away from my chest, and also in mourning for my girlhood. I was 15.

Venetta Octavia, “no one will be spared”, for The Mira Project , “no one will be spared”,