My Body Symbolizes Oppression

As you know, I am a free-spirited poet.

The always-aggrieved ass-kicker Jen at Where the Revolution’s Gonna Begin made this particularly moving entry not long ago.

Although most so-called “normal” people might describe her post as a fever-dream of unhinged weirdness, us feminists consider such melodramatic fusions of self-pity and exhibitionism to be serenely beautiful and poignant.

I was so impressed with your heart-rending essay, Jen! You tickled my Inner Vulva in a way that few others can. Thank you for inspiring my latest pussy-poem!

I call it: My Body Symbolizes Oppression

If only cunts and tits grew on trees!
That’s what the Patriarchy™ wishes for.
But my cunt and tits come with a person attached.
And every war,
Every crime,
Every thing a male does
Is a scream of childish temper at that stubborn little fact.

“Look, she’s got tits!”
“She’s an easily-victimized slave!”
Yes, that’s what they all say… In their minds, at least.
I want to stop being so recognizably female because I want to stop being objectified.
I want to stop being so recognizably female because I’m sick of being used.
I’m sick of being seen as hypersexualized.
I’m sick of being looked at, essentially.
But I’m a hot sultry diva who needs adoration aplenty.

I looked in the mirror, saw the breasts.
Thought, “Objectified. Victim. Sexualized.”
That’s what my breasts signify.
That’s what I assume other people think when they see my breasts.
Therefore it must be true.

I thought, “Fuck, I hate these things.”
I grabbed at them,
Squished them down,
Scratched at them, trying to rip them off.
I pounded myself with my own fists,
As any sane womyn would do.

I howled in anguish at the bathroom mirror.
Plotting new ways to strap them down,
“Need Ace bandages!” I exploded.
My neighbor yelled I was “disturbing” her.
I’d better “shut my yap”, she commanded.
O tragedy! O pathos!
The Patriarchy™ had gotten to her, too.

It’s not my fault I have breasts.
While I was sleeping,
A Patriarch snuck into my room.
He glued these horrible tits on my chest
So men can laugh, stare and grope them.
As if being female isn’t already painful enough!

I hate breasts as tools of the Patriarchy™.
I hate what breasts connote.
I hate what they symbolize and signify.
Damn you Patriarchy™!
Damn you for inventing breasts!
Damn you for installing them on me!
Damn you for designing them specifically to make me miserable!

If I lacked these things on my chest,
Would I still feel the threat of rape every time I walk alone?
Every time I’m drunk?
Every time I’m high?
Every time I take a breath?
Every time I exhale?
Every time the pointy-toothed clown appears in my dreams?

This body of mine announces my vulnerability.
A gorgeous vulnerability I wear on my sleeve.
My vulnerability gets me sympathy and protection
When I advertise it loud and proud.
If I slap my oppressors for offending me, they usually won’t hit back.
Funny how that seems to work.

Before I go to bed, I lock and barricade the door.
I seal myself in a custom-built bulletproof “anti-rape-room”.
With inch-thick steel walls, it’s hard to breathe in there.
I blocked the vent so stray phalluses won’t slither in.
still feel at risk when I’m in there.
For I’ll always be the victim.
That’s what I am and little else.

That is why I protest my own body.
I protest a biology that unfairly forces womyn to have cunts- but not men.
If I was born lacking this dripping, stinky, underappreciated orifice between my legs
Would things have been better?
Would the system treat me differently?
Then I realized that the system needs changing, not me.
NEVER is it ME that needs any changing at all.
That’s why I stopped taking my meds.

To sum up:
Fuck you, Patriarchy™.
Fuck you.