Male Fantasy

Molua Young

 

To be a woman, I must be a male fantasy
I must let a stranger part the flesh from my bones
Pull the gristle and blood from my face
Put a shotgun to my head
And rearrange the pieces, in a fuckable mosaic

To be a woman, I must plead with Atwood, contend with jeering
And a pointed finger ‘you are a man's imitation’
My inner voyeur demands womanhood on a platter
Carved up and dressed in her Sunday best, bleeding
From a stranger’s surgeries

To be a woman I must reduce her to parts offered up
To the voyeur man
‘Here, my breasts, am I not a woman? Does not
My empty womb make me so?’

Or else I must be the ultimate male fantasy, late night
Pornhub searches full of rage and shame, shuddering with sex
And revulsion
The girl in the box beside me cries and that too excites him
What hallowed company I am

To be a woman, I must appease a man
Who lays in my forehead
Looking out from my eyes in glee, excited
At shaky eyeliner and mascara- one step closer
To being his fantasy
And one step closer
To being mine.

Image from Pixabay

Image from Pixabay


Molua is originally from Belfast having moved to Canterbury to study Biological Anthropology, in which she hopes to pursue a career as a researcher. She tries to combine the mundane and mythological in her work, turning everyday occurrences into epic struggles and monsters into relatable characters. Her poetry is intended to make the personal into something iconic, so others can relate to it.