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.
Copyright © Paula Gallego | Year Posted 2026
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