f(emin)ist

i want.

i want and want and want.

and the third syllable, the one that should mitigate my wanting, my desire… the third syllable whose job it is to transform my lustful nature into one of patience,

it fails me, again.

i don’t lust after the things society tells us we all lust after.

i lust after

freedom +

land +

babies.

i don’t want the man, just his seed.

seed.

what a ridiculous term, as the true seed lies within me.

the man has, at best, a fertilizer.

a root stimulant.

he can share it with me, like the answer to a math problem.

not a particularly challenging one,

just one in which i forgot a simple formula.

he rescues me with the answer. i’m to remember the formula myself.

isn’t that the way it is?

so,

i never lust after a man. i enjoy math and prefer the solitude in it.

i don’t want anyone giving me the answers.

i am not a cheat.

my want, my desire, my lust goes unsatisfied.

dissatisfied, more like. dissatisfied with the way everything has turned out, turns out.

om mane padme hum

it never quite obliterates the desire, that third syllable.

it never quiets my womanhood.

maybe it only works on men.

maybe it only works if you enjoy the answers more than you enjoy the formulas,

if you enjoy having more than you enjoy creating.

it never quiets my humanity.

the parts of me, the alls of me, the need for space cluttered with

trees +

moss +

soil as black as the shiniest skin.

i don’t need diamonds. society lies.

the only shine i require comes from the

sun and

skin with Kemetan ancestry and

eyes of one who delights in living.

babies are the gift we receive when we open ourselves to the mystery of life.

let me bask in the glow of a newborn,

let me become the succulent of the genus homo.

let me transform and transfer this desire into tangible means by way of

squatting and

birthing and

nurturing.

land + me + babies =

f(satisfaction)