“I fear the second I begin to love my body is the moment you’ll begin to resent it.”
When he asks me what I want
I disintegrate.
A whirlwind of "what ifs", explanations and rejections
build a wall in my mind that blocks my ability
to tell the truth.
My airways feel dense, cramped
by heavy breaths riddled with fear.
Words unable to surface
and when they finally do,
they feel small.
Why do I feel shame about what makes me feel good?
He asks me again,
"What do you want?"
Translation:
What will make your spine curve
like the Gateway Arch?
And again
I just crumble.
I dutifully giggle
and lightheartedly grin
saying "nothing baby.
You're doing great."
And why? How?
How do you so naturally take my hands
and guide them through bends in your back
and straight up your thigh
and not stop to think
is this what she wants?
What do you want?
Do you want me to be vocal?
Will you meet me halfway?
If I tell you what I need, want, hope for
will you even listen anyway?
New York Times columns and Reductress articles
tell me to love myself
own what I have to say
preach what my body needs.
I read those words, humming in agreement.
Repost here, retweet that.
Letting someone else's words of affirmation
paint my presence as self-loving
feminist
strong
proud.
But with you, you no-face man
no-one identity intimate partner
He who calls me baby
He who kisses down my chest
He who sees me vulnerable in a way
few other people do
I don't know how to be strong with you.
I don't know how to be proud, to be feminist
to be self-loving
because I fear the second I begin to love my body
is the moment you'll begin to resent it.
You'll come to find you need to work harder
to make me feel the way you think I do
when you caress me in your bare-walled room.
Become a scholar in understanding my body.
The pedantic type, who notes every raised hair
on my neck.
You'll realize that the mechanical movements
of your body on top of mine
are detached from the level of intimacy and trust
that I need from our relationship.
You'll discover that gentle susurrations of
moans and "don't stops"
are but a footnote in my book
of sexual communication.
You'll comprehend how much I want
vestiges of your passion and commitment
lingering onto my back
and imprinted on my chest.
And the rest
will be history.
One day, you'll ask me what I want
and I'll commit to loving myself
in the way that I should.
My needs will cascade out of me.
Not minimized by a girlish effervescence
but strengthened by a woman's confidence.
Not downplayed and equivocal.
Never muddled or inexplicit.
They will be crystalline, absolute.
One day I'll come to terms with
how much pleasure, joy, and satisfaction
I've always been worth.
Reach the zenith of bodily autonomy and self-advocacy.
And on that day, you won't ask me what I want
because you know damn well
that I'll have already told you.
This poem is a female twenty-something’s compilation of uncomfortable sexual experiences with men.
Life of a Disgruntled Twenty-Something 