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القرآن الكريم

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Anonymous

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“As he takes off his shroud, I realize how good I've gotten at pretending. Pretending not to notice the knives covering nearly every surface-knives that were specifically designed to peel my flesh. Pretending that eating preserves out of the same kind of jar they use to store our body parts in to sell back to the county is perfectly normal.Pretending this isn't crazy.. that we could actually get away with it...live happily ever after. But there is one thing in all of this that is not pretend. I'm in love with him. I may not be able to spend my life with him, grow old with him, but I can choose to give him my heart. My body. My soul. That's the one thing they will never be able to control in me. Untying the bow from my ribbon I wait for him. He swallows hard before stepping towards. Taking in slow, measured breaths, he twirls the strand around his finger. Our eyes meet. The energy radiating between us is so intense it feels like we might burn down the world. As he pulls the strand, releasing my braid, I know I should avert my gaze, turn my eyes to God, the way we’re taught, but in this moment, all I want is for him to see me. To be seen. As he lifts my slip over my head, it’s like lifting my veil. As I unbutton his trousers, I’m accepting his flower. When he presses his skin against mine, the bloom he chose for me opens up, filling the space with a heady perfume of longing and pain. Entirely ephemeral. Absolutely forbidden. And completely out of our control. Dropping the ribbon to the floor, the last confine the county holds over me, I lead him to the bed. He’s a poacher. I’m prey. Nothing will ever change that. But in this small treetop cabin, away from our home, and the men who named us, we are still human beings, longing for connection, to feel something more than despair in this bleak year. With nothing but the moon and the stars as our witness, he lies beside me. Pressing our palms together, entwining our fingers, we breathe in time. This is exactly where we need to be. There’s no second-guessing, no thinking. And when his lips meet mine, the world disappears. Like magic.”

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Book:Grace Year
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“[A] woman, working fulltime in the home or outside of it as well, married or single, has to put hours of labor into reproducing her own labor power, and women well know the tyranny of this task, for a pretty dress and hairdo are conditions for their getting the job, whether on the marriage market or on the wage labor market.”

FeminismGender RolesGender InequalitySocialist FeminismFeminist SocialismDomestic LaborWages For Housework
Book:Revolution at Point Zero: Housework, Reproduction, and Feminist Struggle
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“In the name of "class struggle" and "the unified interest of the working class," the Left has always selected certain sectors of the working class as revolutionary subjects and condemned others to a merely supportive role in the struggles these sectors were waging.”

FeminismSocialismWorking ClassSocialist FeminismFeminist Socialism
Book:Revolution at Point Zero: Housework, Reproduction, and Feminist Struggle
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“And a woman had to yield. A man was like a child with his appetites. A woman had to yield him what he wanted, or like a child be would probably turn nasty and flounce away and spoil what was a very pleasing connection. But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. A woman could take a man without really giving herself away. Certainly she could take him without giving herself into his power. Rather she could use this sex thing to have a power over him. For she only had to hold herself back in sexual intercourse, and let him finish and expend himself without herself coming into crisis: and then she could prolong the connection and achieve her orgasm and her crisis while he was merely her tool.”

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Book:Lady Chatterley’s Lover
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