I'm not owned yet. Neither a virgin (had force sexual encounter in the past multiple times). I get extremely horny sometimes and start pleasuring myself which makes me feel guilty. In what ways can I control my desires?
Do not call me oppressed.
I have been taught better than to mistake
a woman's freedom
for a woman's worth.
Give the throne to the man.
He was born to sit upon it.
Give him the name,
the house,
the bloodline,
the final word.
Let the woman enter quietly
and be grateful
that there is a place for her
at the edge of his world.
I do not want his throne.
I want the honour
of keeping it polished.
Let him command.
I will call it leadership.
Let him forbid.
I will call it protection.
Let him own the room,
the money,
the name,
the future—
and I will call myself fortunate
that he allows me to belong to him.
You call me weak.
No.
Weakness is a woman
who thinks she can stand
without being held upright
by a man's authority.
Weakness is a wife
who mistakes obedience for humiliation.
Weakness is a daughter
who questions the hand
that feeds her.
Weakness is a woman
who looks at centuries of men
standing above her
and arrogantly asks,
“Why?”
I do not ask why.
I lower my eyes.
A woman does not need to know
everything.
She does not need the burden
of deciding.
There is a strange peace
in surrendering the sword
and being told
which direction to face.
So yes—
let him speak over me.
Let him decide for me.
Let his anger fill the room
until my voice disappears.
Let his footsteps determine
whether I laugh too loudly.
Let his approval become the sun
and his disappointment
the end of the world.
What greater purpose
could a woman have
than learning to orbit a man?
You say I have lost myself.
But what was I supposed to be?
A woman without permission?
A woman without restraint?
A woman with a will
strong enough to rival a man's?
No.
I was raised to believe
that the moment a woman stands beside a man,
she has forgotten her place.
She belongs beneath.
Not because the ground is cruel—
but because I was taught
the sky belongs to him.
And if I must crawl
to keep him standing,
then let my knees bleed.
If I must bite my tongue
until it tastes of iron,
then let me call the blood
devotion.
If I must shrink myself
until there is nothing left
but a silhouette
shaped around his expectations,
then let me disappear beautifully.
For what is a good woman
if not a sacrifice
that learned to smile?
So do not pity me.
I chose this.
That is what makes the cage
so magnificent.
I hold the key in my hand
and still—
I lock the door myself.
Then I kneel before the throne,
press my forehead to the floor,
and whisper,
“Long live the king.
For without his shadow,
I was never taught how to exist.”
I Am the Thing That Teaches Her to Kneel
I was not born in darkness.
I made the darkness.
I entered the world through the mouth of a father
and taught him that his daughter belonged to his honour.
I entered through the hands of a husband
and taught him that love could become ownership
if he called it duty long enough.
I entered through the eyes of a son
and whispered:
You are not born equal to her.
You are born above her.
And he believed me.
So I built him a throne
and gave her the floor.
I told him,
“Stand.”
Then I looked at her and said,
“Kneel gracefully.”
I taught him that command was his inheritance.
I taught her that submission was her virtue.
His anger became thunder.
Hers became madness.
His hunger became desire.
Hers became shame.
His ambition became greatness.
Hers became arrogance.
And every time she reached for something higher,
I tightened the invisible rope around her throat
and called it society.
I taught her to make herself smaller.
Smaller voice.
Smaller dreams.
Smaller clothes.
Smaller steps.
Smaller.
Smaller.
Until she could fit perfectly
inside the space I had prepared for her.
Then I called her feminine.
I taught her to fear the darkness outside—
so she would never notice
that I had locked the door from within.
I told her:
Your body is sacred.
Then I gave everyone else the right
to judge what she did with it.
I told her:
Marriage will protect you.
Then I placed the key to her life
in another man's pocket.
I told her:
A good woman sacrifices.
And watched generations of women
bleed themselves dry
for people who called them selfish
the moment they asked for something in return.
That is my art.
I do not merely hate women.
Hatred is loud.
I am older than hatred.
I am the silence after she speaks
and nobody listens.
I am the laughter when she protests.
I am the accusation when she survives.
I am the question—
“What did she do to deserve it?”
I am the hand that covers her mouth
and then complains
that women have nothing important to say.
I do not always break her bones.
Sometimes,
I break her belief
that she was ever allowed
to stand upright.
I make her doubt her anger.
I make her apologise for taking space.
I make her grateful
for crumbs
and then call her demanding
when she asks for bread.
And when she finally rises—
when she tears through every rule
I carved into her skin—
I do not call her free.
I call her dangerous.
Because I have always known the truth.
A woman who knows her worth
is not difficult.
She is not unnatural.
She is not arrogant.
She is simply no longer afraid of me.
And that—
that is the one thing
I was built
to prevent.
Patriarchy
I do not ask women to believe they are inferior.
I make them prove they are not, every single day.
I tell them a man is born with authority and a woman must earn the right to speak. I tell them his voice carries weight while hers carries noise. When he interrupts, I call him confident. When she interrupts, I call her disrespectful.
I tell her she is too weak for power, too emotional for leadership, too delicate for danger, too complicated for freedom—and then I hand her the consequences of a world she was never allowed to control.
I tell her the man is the head.
The provider.
The protector.
The decision-maker.
And her?
She is the adjustment.
She is expected to bend around his career, his family, his anger, his reputation, his desires, his name.
If she succeeds, I ask who helped her.
If he succeeds, I assume he deserved it.
If he has many lovers, I call him experienced.
If she does, I call her ruined.
If he is demanding, he knows his worth.
If she is demanding, she has forgotten her place.
I teach her that being desired is more valuable than being respected. Then I punish her for being desirable.
I teach her to fear being alone so deeply that she mistakes dependence for love.
I tell her marriage is security. Obedience is virtue. Silence is grace. Sacrifice is femininity.
And if she begins to disappear beneath all of it, I praise her for being a good woman.
That is how I work.
Not with chains.
With shame.
With laws, customs, prayers, expectations, warnings, jokes, traditions, and mothers teaching daughters to survive the very cage they were taught to call home.
I do not need every man to hate women.
I only need enough people to believe that men should stand above them.
And for centuries, I have made that belief sound like common sense.
I am patriarchy.
I do not merely place women beneath men.
I convince the world that the ground beneath them is where they belong.
To the Sirs/Masters/Owners
How do you want your girl to be? An independent PhD holder who changes herself after marrying you, takes up your surname, stops working, cooks, cleans, carries and nourishes your children, loses her entire identity or a weak girl who has never had a say in her life?
I'm new to inflation. A chubby girl with a considerable amount of belly fat. Where do I start from? Kinda excited, nervous and scared as well