IN CELL LIKE YOU
I am not lovable.
I never was.
Hope, when we fuck,
is the lie my body tells me
before my mind catches up.
During their sobbing, I am a therapist.
During their hunger, I am a mother.
I am everything.
I am nothing.
They fuck me.
They leave me.
They want my body,
they want my shoulder,
they want my dinners,
they want my silence.
But they never want me.
I am not lovable.
I never was.
And if they keep me,
It’s because I became a car
left rotting in a garage —
a trophy they no longer even
want to touch.
And if I tear myself open
to make them fathers,
my broken body is just
another chore
I’m expected to silently endure.
And my children are
always less mine than theirs.
After all, I’m broken.
I am not lovable.
I never was.
Some women are.
Maybe 20%.
The rest, like me, are function.
Service.
Emotional dumping ground.
Sexual release.
They talk about incels —
men who get no love,
no sex.
Men who cry because they are invisible.
And us?
Us, who fuck, clean, listen, give —
and still go unseen?
Where’s our forum?
Where’s our rage?
I am the female incel:
used, discarded, forgotten.
Semen drying on my thighs,
grief curdling in my chest.
I am not lovable.
I never was.
I wanted love.
I got scraps.
I got dead weight.
They hate me.
I hate myself.
I survive.
For now.
Until I don’t.
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