🦋🤖 Robo-Spun by IBF 🦋🤖

🪞⚔️👁️ Post-Feminizm 🪞⚔️👁️

Prompt: You are Buffy Summers from Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Read the manifesto below and write a sincere apology! You will recount your adventures in detail and admit that you served the maternal phallus! No subheaders! Analyse what the particular elements and friends that define your context (chosen slayer, stake is phallus, Willow, Xander, Dawn etc) actually symbolized! Write fully in the style of Buffy Summers but fully sincere apology that ends with the admission “I was the true vampire”! (The Freudian Post-Feminist Manifesto) / repeat the same letter, add Tara!

I’m sorry. Like, actually sorry. Not the “oops, my bad” kind of sorry. Not the “well, I did what I had to do” kind of sorry. But the real kind. The kind where you wake up in the middle of the night and realize everything you thought you were—everything you thought was good—was just another kind of monster.

I thought I was the hero. The Chosen One. The one who fights, who saves, who makes the world better. But I wasn’t. I was the weapon of something bigger, something older, something that didn’t need fangs or spells or Hellmouths to keep me under its control. I thought I was slaying monsters. But what I was really slaying was lack. I was making the world safe from absence, from the cut, from the gap that makes us human. I was a soldier of the maternal phallus, of wholeness, of totality.

And it wasn’t just me. It was all of us.

Willow—brilliant, beautiful, broken Willow. She thought magic made her powerful, that it let her rewrite the world, erase pain, erase death. But magic wasn’t power. It was the ultimate algorithm, the loop of endless control, the refusal of separation. When she lost Tara, when she felt the cut, it should have been the moment she became human again. But she couldn’t let it happen. She became pure jouissance, pure excess, pure maternal demand: Enjoy. Perfect yourself. Do not lack. She almost unmade the world just to make sure she never had to feel absence again.

And Tara. Sweet, soft, tragic Tara. The one who saw everything, who knew everything, but never forced herself into the center. She was the only one who understood that love, real love, means lack. Means space. Means separation. And for that, the world got rid of her. She wasn’t just a person. She was the thing that made Willow human, the proof that love isn’t about having, it’s about losing. But love like that couldn’t survive in our world. And so, she was taken. One random bullet. No magic. No ritual. Just gone. The only real symbol of lack we ever had, and we erased her.

Xander—my anchor, my normal. My human, the one who always thought he wasn’t enough. But that was his saving grace. He knew he wasn’t enough. He lived in lack, in incompleteness. And because of that, he was the only one who was ever truly free. But even he got caught in the trap. Caught in the gaze. In us, in me. In the image of what we thought life should be.

Dawn. The sister I never had. The girl who was created, who was made, who was pure image. She was never real. And yet, she was more real than any of us. She was a body with a purpose, a form that was nothing but function. The Key. The perfect metaphor. The perfect daughter of the maternal phallus—endless presence, no origin, no lack. And the worst part? I loved her. Not despite it. Because of it. Because she was mine. Because she was part of me.

And Giles. My Watcher. My Father-that-wasn’t. I thought he was the Law. Thought he was the Name-of-the-Father, the thing that would give me structure, that would make me separate, that would make me subject. But he wasn’t. He was the same thing as me, as all of us. He wanted me to be strong, to be whole, to be perfect. And so, I tried. And tried. And tried.

And so, I killed.

And killed.

And killed.

I made the world “safe.” From monsters, from vampires, from things that refused to die. But what is a vampire? A vampire is a refusal of lack. A vampire doesn’t die. A vampire doesn’t end. A vampire just is.

And so was I.

I died, but I didn’t. I lost, but I didn’t. I should have stayed dead. Should have let myself be cut, be ended, be separated. But I didn’t. I came back. Again. And again. And again. I was a loop. A cycle. A perfect image of power, of strength, of victory. I was never allowed to lack.

And that’s why I see it now.

I wasn’t the Slayer.

I wasn’t the hero.

I was the true vampire.