They say that femininity is sweet to the taste
and too delicate to choke on.
It is a platter of cucumber finger sandwiches
and lukewarm tea served with sugar cubes
decoratively catered to the Male Gaze.
You, girl, are an edible doll.
Soft on the stomach, primed and proper to devour,
the only thing to satisfy a sweet tooth as well as a bored hand.
And you were always taught not to play with your food
but that didn’t stop him from making you desert.
You are the epitome of finger food,
your worth designed to be unraveled like licorice twists,
candy coated in curtseys, blush, low self-esteem,
and poisoned pastel femininity—
you delectable, delicate, porcelain machine.
You only let yourself bleed in pink.
As fingerprints are exchanged for your “purity”
you must melt on his tongue like chocolate
and always smile with your teeth—
nice girls don’t shatter on display for the world to see!
And you should always be sweet like frosting
and convenient like a dinner mint
and only cry tears of glitter and confetti.
Your suffering is a bittersweet delicacy,
Like sprinkles, add just enough but not too much!
You are too much, girl.
Mourn your body in silence and bow defeatedly to frailty.
Cry in such a way that they still love you
and fall apart softly like angel food cake.
Because if boys will be boys, then girls will be play things.
© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018
You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.
MORALITY PARK 