"The Gates of Dawn (detail)" by Herbert James Draper (1863-1920)

A pentalingual and shabby chic European, fin de siècle & décadence enthusiast, Laura Gentile shares some of her blog with us each week. 

I asked myself where rape came from.
The origins of rape.
The stolen entitlement.
The female body as merchandise,

As a means to one end,
As blatantly interchangeable,
As disposable.
Then it hit me.

It’s as old as it can be.
Rape.
We saw her and we took it.
As simple as that.

Across times.
Always.
Babies, girls, women, we don’t matter.
Their needs dehumanise us.

I will not listen to excuses.
Full of testosterone.
We need to release our urges.
We need prostitutes.

We need robots.
We need dolls.
We need A. I. sex slaves.
We need objects.

We are reduced to our sex.
You blemish it and put the blame on us.
The scandal.
The devaluation.

The double standards.
The whore.
The children of rape.
The stigmata.

The worthlessness.
The dirt.
Loss of honour.
You are not in your right mind.

Taking what’s mine, stealing, robbing; and you throw everything away.
You inflict us with the worst of wounds.
And yet here we are.
Could you even pull that off?

You always go back to the same old rotten weapon
To punish us, demonise us, excommunicate us.
Who do you think you are?
I am so sick of the traces you leave everywhere, so very recklessly.

You complain that women are always so angry.
We have every reason to be furious.
You are so sick and careless.
You mount us all and run away like little boys.

Against our will.
Against our screams.
Against our tears.
Against our pain.

Against our struggle to be free of you
And your pestilent desires.
Anger is an acknowledgement.
What happened to me is wrong, is a crime, is inhumane, is unacceptable.

Yes, I’m as angry as I can be.
That’s on you.
You’ll take it.
What you’ve tortured me with.

I’m still walking.
You are a one-trick-pony.
A constant red flag.
Don’t you dare call me the weaker sex with everything that I’ve endured.

You wouldn’t have the stomach.
At your hands.
At your mind.
At your sex.

You are a dead end.
Nothing good can come of you.
If you could you would erase our souls and keep our bodies to yourselves.
A dead thing.

A hollow object.
Silence. Obedience. Submission. Lifelessness.
Is this the world you live in, your parameters?
Your kind persisted over centuries.

I ask myself why.
I really do.
Your red flags exist in innumerable nuances across the globe.
Trauma fireworks.

We are heroines, not victims, mark my words.
You hit us where it hurts.
Below the belt, always.
I’d want to see you get back up and assemble all parts of you.

You walk the earth in nonchalance.
It truly makes me gag.
Blaming everything on your male nature.
Your striving and demanding masculinity.

Get out of your hole and assume responsibility.
It’s you.
And I don’t have anything to do with you.
Shame? On you.
Dishonour? On you.

Blame? On you.
Crime? On you.
Infamy? On you.
Rape? On you.

And I sing an ode of love to my heroines.

You can find more of Laura Gentile's Poetry & Prose on her website, Croque-Melpomene.

Reserve a copy of Laura Gentile's debut novel here.

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