(i wrote this to get my feelings out about being fetishized and dehumanized as a trans woman, only being seen as a tool for sexual satisfaction & as an object of a sexual fantasy rather than a person. i hope you enjoy :D)
i am a doe in the land of romance; the air is beautiful and the grass is smooth.
a hunter doesn't see me as something to last them for long, just something vulnerable to hunt for fun.
a fat, barely legal trans girl, "she doesn't get this much," he'll think. "she'll take the bait, hook, line, sinker."
and i do, just for the hope that maybe this one will be different.
as i'm inbetween his crosshairs, he takes the shot; wounding me.
he'll hold my head up as he's about to plunge his dagger into my stomach, wanting to take my guts as reward;
he'll see the scars of the knifes that have been before him; this is not the doe's first time.
he'll look at the mix of desperation, fear, turmoil, exhaustion, and acceptence in her eyes and the doe will see nothing behind his;
"hurry up," the doe will plead, "i just want this over with."
he'll raise his dagger again and plunge it into my gut; not just once, multiple times, each deeper than the last until he's satisfied.
he'll slice down, exposing her vulnerable insides, full of insecurities, bones, abandonment, and intestines.
the doe stares off into the distance as her blood spills from her wounds; ignoring the hunter and his bloodlust.
he grabs everything he wants, breaking my bones into a crown, my intestines his grisly accessory.
he'll leave what he never wanted, the insecurities still festering, the abandonment wriggling like maggots.
he walks away, he'll see blood, not just from him, but from the doe's previous encounters with the poachers before him.
he'll chuckle to himself as he proceeds forward, "stupid fucking girl. should've known better."
the doe will stay still in her position, careful to not give herself away for the next one to see.
she will lay for hours upon hours, unsure if its safe; until she finally pushes herself to do
she will sew herself up and limp away, praying nothing will spill.
i limp deeper into the woods, wounds raw and still bloody, stitches sloppy.
what was so beautiful about the land had turned grotesque, the grass had become dry and the weather stormy.
the doe will notice another hunter ahead of her, his broad figure, hungry eyes, salivating fangs.
she won't run, she won't cry again, she'll just lie upon the rough terrain.
she's accepted her fate of it happening all over again.
her daydream; her own personal purgatory.
her breathing will slow; heart loudly proclaiming danger.
she'll drift off to sleep as she's soon surrounded by predators.
she'll dream about a vicious buck saving her, taking her away from this.
but, it won't happen.
she'll wake up with everything intact again, a new mark added against her hide.
she'll proceed like nothing happened and the cycle shall start again.