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March 3, 2021

Death of the female fantasy.

Photo by T on Pexels.

I lay waiting in bed,

Overcome with disbelief.

The end perches upon my stoop

And I see no sign of relief.

I’ve resigned to have life

Slowly slip out of me.

Saying goodbye to all things precious,

Handing over the keys with glee.

There’s one irksome fact,

I can’t seem to put to rest.

Were my only needs as a woman,

To fill that empty nest?

I was told tall tales of passion

And whirlwind romances.

But I spent most of my time,

Dodging stares and unwanted advances.

Where were the glances to come hither?

Sweet nothings and infamous stable romps?

Rather, lost in a sea of wolves and slither,

Mostly showboating and all pomp.

A space that is safe,

Ignites the spark of the female fire.

An abode for respect and grace,

Unleashing all play and desire.

Instead we’re met with superficial scrutiny,

Shaky grounds of withering connection.

Playing a game of cat and mouse,

Feelings– the forbidden mention

Can you then blame us,

For keeping the loins always at simmer?

Never getting our glorious groove back,

No fifty shades of grey or glimmer.

Hope seems to spring eternal,

Lies to oneself ever aplenty.

But in reality, we must face,

as the fish in the ocean die out,

So might our options from twenty.

Maybe the fables are true,

And up ahead lies your true Adonis.

But the grains of sand,

Have all run out.

And life has left me,

An empty promise.

A fictional ode to the grim reality of the unfulfilled female fantasy.

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