Have you seen the blog 'why-we-don't-need-feminism'? What do you make of it?

Yes, and it makes me sad. There’s a post going around that addresses this so much better than I’m about to attempt to, but I can’t find it!

Firstly, the blog contains anonymous submissions that seem to be as much from men as they are from women. Of course men don’t really need feminism because it is a movement that asks them to surrender their numerous and overwhelming advantages (aside from things like being forced to participate in lad culture, having less paternity leave etc, all of which feminism will put a stop to anyway but that’s a different story). So aside from that, why would they need it? If they want to bemoan their superiority being slowly chiselled away then that’s of no interest or importance to me. 

I find the women submitting to that blog more interesting. I don’t hate them, or begrudge them their opinions. Feminism is a movement that is supposed to end, and the result will be women (like the ones submitting) who don’t feel oppressed in their society. This is the end goal, and I’m glad it’s beginning to happen for women like that, BUT! Firstly, they are being systemically oppressed whether they realise it or not (rape culture, slut shaming, body shaming, wage gap etc) and it’s sad to see them deluded into thinking they have to settle for their current lot. Secondly, there are women in the world who are still in the deepest clutches of misogyny and it is the role of feminists, both in the communities in question and from further afield, to bring it to an end. So even if you don’t feel oppressed yourself, you owe it to your sisters across the world to fight for their liberation. 

Yours is the only face I recognize.
Bone at my bone, you drink my answers in.

Anne Sexton, “Unknown Girl in the Maternity Ward,” from To Bedlam and Part Way Back (via lifeinpoetry)

Warsan Shire - For Women Who Are Difficult To Love

i have just found out that ‘pie’ means ‘godly’ in latin no joke omfg 

I came home with you and it was beautiful and we fought like we always fight, except I’m getting tired. I’m too invested to be ok with your insults, too weary to fob you off with my own. We’ve had a wonderful couple of days back at Uni but you’re keeping your phone away from me and strange scratch marks keep appearing on your back. They’re not me, I know you only like it between your shoulder-blades, and never hard enough to draw blood. You’re blaming them on the gym equipment. 

I wished that woman would write and proclaim this unique empire so that other women, other unacknowledged sovereigns, might exclaim: I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst - burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a stinking fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn’t open my mouth, I didn’t repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear. I said to myself: You are mad! What’s the meaning of these waves, these floods, these outbursts? Who, surprised and horrified by the fantastic tumult of her drives, hasn’t accused herself of being a monster? Who, feeling a funny desire stirring inside her, hasn’t thought she was sick?

Helene Cixous, from The Laugh of the Medusa