Girl on a Leash With a Dildo in Her Pocket
You say you love women—
like a hunter loves the mounted deer head.
Like a landlord loves the rent check.
Like a shepherd loves a flock that never wanders too far.
You say you respect women—
but only when they know their place,
when they nod without volume,
when they bleed without asking for towels or rights.
You say you were raised right—
to open doors,
to pay for dinner,
to lead the prayer
while she stays quiet with her eyes lowered
like the second coming of shame.
But let me ask you this,
What is love
if it only blooms when you’re in control?
What is respect
if it evaporates the moment she disagrees?
You loved her voice
until she used it.
You say women are sacred—
but your idea of sacred
comes with conditions:
legs crossed,
lips sealed,
loyalty to your ego above her soul.
And God help her
if she has a boundary you didn’t approve in advance.
You keep calling women “queens” but treat them like unpaid maids in castles you didn’t build.
And here’s the part
you won’t put in your Sunday prayers.
She’s got a leash in one hand
and a metaphor in the other.
The leash you gave her.
The metaphor she gave herself.
See—she carries that dildo in her pocket
not for sex,
but for symmetry.
Because for so long,
you’ve used power like foreplay.
You’ve mistaken possession for passion.
And she’s done letting you pretend
that her submission
was ever sacred.
You don’t get to call it love
if you’ve never let her say no.
You don’t get to call it respect
if your hands only open to take.
This poem—
isn’t about hating men.
It’s about undressing the kind of man
who hides control inside compliments.
Who treats “I love you”
like a muzzle that fits just right.
You say you’re a “protector,”
but the thing is—
she never asked for a cage with padding.
She asked for freedom. You gave her fear.
But guess what?
She’s not waiting for your permission anymore.
She’s taking back the leash
and tying it into a knot you’ll never understand.
She’s pulling the power out of her own back pocket—
and this time,
she doesn’t need you to feel whole.
So if you say you love women—
prove it.
Not with empty promises.
Not with lies wrapped in Bible sermons.
Not with “baby, I was just trying to lead.”
Prove it
by stepping back, by listening, by learning that LOVE
doesn’t mean ownership.
And remember,
She might have once knelt to you,
but now she stands—
spine straight,
pocket full,
voice sharp enough
to split the leash
you said was love.
Comments
Post a Comment