She’s More Than Skin And Bones

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Leanne Surfleet

She’s more than skin and bones.

The one you notice while you drive, gazing to the side with your one hand resting on the top of the steering wheel. You, the arrogant debauchery of human existence, mutter obscenities at her. You drive slower now, roll down your window and stick that oversized head of yours out. You call her names your mother would slap you for. You taunt her as if she’s your objectified toy. You might leave then, you laugh it off and leave her frightened and vulnerable. But the more dehumanized among you will grab her at whim and commit unforgivable acts against her will.

She’s more than skin and bones.

The one you find yourself alone with on the train while the remainder of the world sleeps. The one that sits in the back of the cart with weary eyes upon the realization of her solitude. The one you smirk your superiority at. The one you approach and tell her, girls like you shouldn’t be alone this late. And when she retorts severe profanity at you, you reach for her but she escapes. Strangers enter the train and you lose the liberty of an empty train to commit your sins. But you continue to look at her until she gets off, you stare at her as if she’s prey.

She’s more than skin and bones.

The one you survey to be worthy enough of your amusement at a social outing of sort. You play the subtle card first, pull her in with half-smiles and innocent remarks. You complement her, give her accidental brushes of human contact, buy her a drink maybe, You don’t ask her really, you just take her. Take her hand when she is losing conscious and dance with her. Feed off the pleasantry her body arouses. But this is not enough, you want more, you are hungry. So you drag her to the darkest corner, push her against the wall. You ignore her continuous assertions of no and you brush off her feeble attempts at physical resistance. You drown her with your saliva and you bite her and leave your scars. Even when she shrieks at you, you enclose your hand on her mouth and silence her pleas. You perceive her as the solution to unfulfilled desires, an object to control in an otherwise disorderly life. Constraining her liberates because to you she is nothing, nothing worthy of respect and stature. But you, the vile pinnacle of immorality, do not realize that she’s more than skin and bones. She’s more than the recipient of your sexual shortcomings. She’s more than prey, she’s a fucking human. She has a name, an identity, and an existence of meaning. She’s someone’s daughter, sister, mother. How would you feel if it was your own blood? Does it repulse you? Does the pit of your stomach turn on itself? Imagine that then, every time you objectify her in any context. How would you like it if it was your own daughter or sister that was taunted or worse? Is it still pleasurable, does it satisfy your inflated ego? And if this does not teach you, don’t be shocked when she takes her four-inch heels and stabs your foot in retribution. Feel the intensity of pain, experience the tentative justice of mistreating her. You deserve it, you despicable creature, you, and all synonymous to your kind, deserve an infinite degree of suffering. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

I have thematic discussions with my inanimate monkey.

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