Insincerely Yours

Updated: Nov 8, 2018

by Lentilles

You think I am yours when you see me smile at you. You call it acceptance; I call it survival skills.

What an interesting turn of events. Now that Evolution stripped me from my claws and fangs, it has left me with a smile to defend myself from you. Of course, Mother Nature is wise, and if you had the decency to attack me with physical strength, like animals driven by their instincts do, I would still have my claws and fangs. But since you attack me with your money, and the power it represents, the power you hold over me, I can’t fight back. Fighting back would be like a self-inflicted wound.





And, you know what? It wouldn’t even be “fighting back;” it would just be asking for respect. Because, you know, even though you see me as an object of pleasure that conveniently is skilled in certain trade, I’m still a human being (yes, despite my vagina, society now deems me as your equal. Crazy, right?).

Holding back only serves to increase the burning sensation I get from that awful pit that my stomach is slowly creating (very poetically, but in the way of those self-destructive addict poets of old) as a form of letting go some of my anger. But even though I’ve had to let go some of my favorite things to not upset you (spicy food and my dignity, for example), I’ve just told a lie: holding back not only serves to feed my gastritis, it also serves to feed myself, and those who depend on me. So I keep doing it. I keep smiling.

Is it coincidence that all of us, under your command (sorry, I mean, leadership), are women? Probably that’s what you tell yourself to seem less of a predator and get a good night sleep (on the comfortable bed that our hard work and extra hours have paid for you). But I don’t need to ask you that question, I already know the answer. We know the answer. We look pretty, we are decorative (it’s like having flower vases that also can get the job done), and this wretched society that promulgates so proudly that we are your equals, also made sure that your brain isn’t able to see us as anything else than the obliging recipients of your disgusting sexual comments, that you so clumsily attach to any vague comment about our work, so that it is just “regular office banter.” You know, to promote bonding. Through fear and irregular power positions. But bonding, nonetheless (keep telling yourself that story too).

I just wanted to let you know this. Right here, where you won’t read it. Right here where neither me, nor my sisters, will have to face retaliation. Because this is really soothing for the sacrificial volcano that my stomach is becoming. Because don’t even get me started on the miserable health care I can afford with whatever scraps you throw me from your metaphorical tower (but also, a bit literal, since you made sure we work on the ground floor, while you have to climb more than a few stairs to get to yours).

So, right here, and right now, please, go and fuck yourself. Tomorrow, back at work, I’ll just smile again.


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