Man, you do not make me.
You may spread your seed like a dandelion weed,
but you do not hold me, grip me by my roots and
pine for me to grow.
I am the wild flower in your eye,
the white lily crushed between my thighs,
and I wonder if I would have been so frail for you
had he not failed for me.
Man, you do not fool me.
I do not buy the fresh succulent pink of timid flesh,
nor will I be the lonely princess in your tower,
waiting to be saved.
I have outgrown the sinister tales
devised by cowardly males
who want us to regress from meek girls
to tragically weak women.
Man, you do not own me.
My body cannot be made a commodity,
a blank canvas upon which you can stain yourself
a man’s mannequin.
My breasts cannot be made tits;
my arse, like yours, farts and shits.
I will not be weighed in gold as you wish,
nor will growing old diminish me.
Man, you do not know me.
I am not the pleasant smile to your beguile,
and being fucked around does not make me crazy –
it makes me mad.
I am not the column in your magazine
which believes that you, man, could be the man of my dreams.
I will not believe your desperate plea which does not see that
man, you cannot stop me loving me.
By Martha Everitt