A law of physics states that the eyes upon a thing change that thing, utterly.
Let me look at you. Let me make you, in your body, a thing.
Let me make you nothing more than an object, a sight, Ah, you see:
There you are! A Woman. Endlessly, forever, defined and beheld, internally and externally, by the Male Gaze.
For whose Gaze Do You Stand? It is me asking you. I use my words to Prod At You.
Can you stand for your Own Gaze? Can you stand your own gaze upon you?
I bet several thousand pounds that you cannot bear, bare, your gaze upon yourself.
Are you aware of the Invisible Eyes that Gaze upon you? The invisible eyes that watch you from within your psyche, from the Internal Hell Realms that you, until you gaze upon this text, are utterly, Hellishly unaware of?
The eyes that bore into you, your breasts, your belly, as you cross a room? Or undress, studiously avoiding yourself in a mirror nearby? Or as you try clothes on in a changing room, cruel top light…. Folds of flesh heavily shadowed, imperfections dimpling, wobbling, waving wildly.
Comparing and Despairing, endlessly, as you pass other women, images in magazines, films, adverts, you are hilariously and blissfully unaware of the eyes that you look through: as the wrinkles appear around your eyes, as you age, almost imperceptibly, but actually hysterically triggered, by your perceived failures. The lines of your jewels blurring, your lips thinning.
Whose eyes are these? You ask me, confused and furious, your face posed at the perfectly perceived angle as you talk to me in the mirror… because you cannot dare or bear to look in a mirror without the pout, the lift, the suck, the tilt, the raised eyebrow.
You look so silly! It is a tragedy…. I hurl, laughing to Shame You.
You turn on me and hiss, teeth bared. It is rather shockingly excellent in its hideousness and random veracity.
OK, OK, I back off a little, hands raised defensively: All women do it, not just you. You are all horrified and terrified of those invisible eyes that watch your every move.
Leaning forward, hands on the basin, shoulders hunched, head down, you raise your eyes to me. Your eyes glitter and you hate me.
I can see how exhausting it all is and I am thrilled by the agony. It is wonderful to torture with this gaze of mine.
It is the Eternal Male eyes, the Biblical Eyes of God, the Vision of the Patriarchy in all its Erectile Glory that bore into your psyche, that twist, turn, torture, laugh, mock, reject, loathe, and endlessly want to Fuck You. Endlessly want to Fuck With You. And you cannot stop it happening. You cannot, ever, close the eyes. In actual fact… the Gaze Gets Harsher and Harsher, more Confounding, crueller. It is everywhere.
I have leaned back against the bathroom wall now, arms folded, smiling at your hateful eyes upon me. I know you are utterly and completely powerless against my Gaze. It is woven into the very fabric of your soul. It is part of the warp and the weft of you. The bones and heft of you. You can never be thin enough or beautiful enough for me to really truly smile at you, to promise to Love You Forever.
And that agony holds you in a thrall, to me.
Let me compare Thee to a summers day.
No, actually, screw that, fuck that, fuck you: let me, let you, compare yourself to The Virgin Mary.