Warning: the following piece contains strong language, adult themes, & ideologically sensitive material. Reader discretion is advised. Trigger warning: sexual assault.
What might I tell the girl complicit in her own suffering — what wisdom might I impart that the under-the-shirt slip of a blade gone dull from practice could cut with serrated edges gone blunt from self-demolition? For starters, the violation feels like Kyle’s hand’s cupping my adolescent breast, awaking me from a dead sleep. No heart sounds the alarm residing beneath memorial tissue. Sweat trickles. He pretends it’s someone else’s offense. They agree. With show-and-tell imagery, he and his friends illustrate: if I tell, I’ll be shown, and plenty more where that came from, cunt. Bitch. Cooze. Brat. Skank. Whore. Dummy. Slit. Sub-human. Thing.
Attention! Tax cut, unfair and square. The bastion of D&D nobles subterfuge their way into a Bogarted wormhole. Nowadays they tag along to humdrum adult birthday affairs, flaccid when provoked, unable to get hard unless they can coerce their buds to gangbang unconscious girls under the table. In the time it kills to complete (remember — you’re OFFICIAL) an earnings statement, the sole peace I find in open-ended feathered sleep rests within a self-dug grave. The bells chime: “To repent is not to repeat, but to accept defeat.” I will none. Will does not follow commands.
An ultimatum from the fairer sex: I should rejoin the search party in haste, lest I provoke the master’s delicate disposition; afterwards, the invitation itself revokes, as I prove myself a laundry pile’s worth of risky business. Habitually, I fret away the vermin and straw-suck some godless peace at the whims of a man called Butler as he pats my head like a doting grandfather; and opens the door for fresh insults while I’m taking a powder. By the time I’ve returned to my seat, it’s an all-out mental bash-in. Hired help, would that I could fire you en masse (with a kick in the can to inflict his white male privilege) before you had the chance to air-drop the birdcage. Would you invite your daughters to the illicit peepshow? Should you ask them to join the striptease? Could you close your eyes?
Side-sneers be damned: you brainwashed lot stick together like scar tissue to an inflamed colon; as here I sit, soothsaying, when a wave of empathy makes a clean break of hate. And you loiter outside my house with your cellphones and your cameras, expecting a proper show. Gamers addicted to the joystick: pathetic fallacy. You dare to drive down my lane, park in front of my house, and expect me not to know. I have shown you where to stick the fuck-me fingers. Sure enough, my strength has grown. I don’t need your god to tell me where you need to go. If Heaven’s full (no vacancies for those who lack rosaries), I’ll take my plot next to my pot in Paradise Unknown.
Rest assured, I am not sorry for me. I will not learn your lessons because they do not speak to me. I will not absorb your blame because it is removed from me. Your fake cheer and crocodilian sympathy have no effect on me. The ones who really care are already next to me. Whether near, far, or in between, our love is what I want and need. So take your vaudeville-gaudy baubles and peddle on another sad sack’s lawn–a vandal’s trinkets have no worth for me. At last I’ve come full circle ’round; the universe resides in me.
Take my advice, or leave it, girl: you are whole and self-complete.
© Jane Bled 2018
All Rights Reserved.