the commodification of love

thursday the 14^th of april

the reality of being a woman is actually not to be a woman, but to be a woman’s body thinking of a man watching your woman’s body and performing for the imaginary man. because the imaginary man is actually, every man. even as myself, a critical thinker, a passionate feminist, i have allowed the entrenched patriarchal normalities of my day-to-day life to seep so far into my subconscious that they haunt me even when i am alone.

i’m repulsed by the reality that even in my moments alone, even in my most fleeting, vulnerable moments, my inner monologue is considering what a man would think if he was observing me at that moment. as if my conscience is ruled by some eagle eyed, critical, big brother who i must always look so good and feminine for. being a woman means having no moments of peace. no right to simply exist.

being a woman is needing to feel like a woman, rather than a person.

he is the only glimpse of an answer when i wonder what my expectations of love would be if i had been sheltered from all the media bombarding of shoulds and musts and has tos. when i am alone, and i am picturing him there, i am not imagining how i look in his gaze or the image he has of me. i am thinking of the smell of his neck and the feeling of our hands together and how cold his nose is. for once i am not commodifying myself and my presence and i am truly alive within my body, not just within my brain.