I’m a fake feminist
I’m a fake feminist.
I take pleasure in the thought of submission, in the image of me
bent over a table and ed,
ravaged out of my mind,
reduced to tears and whimpers.
I don’t enjoy it, I don’t get sexual gratification from it,
but a deep satisfaction that screams
“it’s okay, this is normal”.
I cry afterwards, of course,
or even during these fantasising moments of my days.
My mind plunges
into a deep pool of masochistic imagery,
bordering on troubling,
taboo scenes that I can’t share,
not even with my own self, never.
My sex gets aroused while I feel nothing,
not a single nervous ending, not even a run of my fingers on my skin.
I am numb.
My mind is numb.
Even when I come, I can’t make myself utter a noise.
Then my eyes burn, my nose itches.
Don’t cry,
I think to myself, don’t cry again,
this is supposed to feel good,
and then the ugly sobs come.
Big, disturbing wails of help
(who am I asking for?) fill my room.
I feel disgust, I retch.
Almost like a performance
I stop immediately,
the physical numbness spreads to my brain like an anaesthetic,
my mind suffers from an amnesia episode and
my body moves on its own to the bathroom.
I seek men,
women,
anyone
who will have me.
I entice them, lead them on.
I want to be dominated, used and discarded.
I want to be an equal, loved and held.
I am a fake feminist,
I fantasise with being raped, pillaged,
taken, broken apart
and left to freeze under the night sky.
I am a fake feminist,
and a child,
and a woman,
and a man,
and nothing all at once.
I want to make sense of everything, I want to remember nothing.
I am a fake feminist,
and if my innocence had not been trumped and torn to pieces,
if I had been loved and not hated,
caressed and not abused,
I would be a real one.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment