Why is the Woman deemed a public artifact, accessed and consumed by many, while her experiences are hers only and hers alone? Why is it that any action by a woman that indicates her desire to universalize her struggles immediately invalidates those struggles?
“You think too much.”
“You don’t respect yourself.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“You need to relax.”
“You’re playing games.”
“You feel [insert your self-projection here].”
And the rather ambiguous: “You are strange and/or weird.”
You want her to love you but won’t will yourself to believe in her words because you’re convinced that your insecurities preside over hers. And whenever she expresses doubts about her inner being, not because she’s false (au contraire) but because you have successfully alienated her from the unreality you created, she is then expected to bear the brunt of your passive aggression. She is your escape. She is a fleeting memory you come home to when you’re bored and unfulfilled.
Women are cold creatures.
Women are preserved corpses.
Women are silently moved
by your words,
your presence,
your feelings,
your cold hands, warm lips, erect flesh
your existence.
She is the object of your desire, and you are the subject of the life you impose upon her. Thus when she says she loves you, you have no other choice but doubt the very same air that exhales from your lungs into her mouth, and from hers into yours.
You take her breath away, crack her ribs open, choke her with the poison you inhale, resuscitate her, and the cycle repeats. No sympathy for the dead, I suppose.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I struggle telling you the truth because I am branded a woman. But I’ll say it anyway. Cross my heart and hope to die live in freedom: I love you (I think?) only because you’re human. I can only hope that I am, in your eyes, human too.
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