Presumably had an opinion
about the need
for such things
Women have burnt like beacons in all the works of all the poets from the beginning of time. Indeed if woman had no existence save in the fiction written by men, one would imagine her a person of the utmost importance; very various; heroic and mean; splendid and sordid; beautiful and hideous in the extreme; as great as a man, some would say greater. But this is woman in fiction.
〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️Virginia Woolf ➰➰➰➰🔚
The reason why
awaylike silly putty
used to patch
in waves of
She could barely stand to peruse her persona, reflected cold, hard truths not worth sedating, etched in every fine line, under every harsh light.
You are not beautiful
crossed her off the list
til the sting of residual glut
Absolute beauty &
The modeling agency turned her down
The dealer picked her up
And so what has it all been for?
And who then “deserved” an answer at all?
Especially if one were to consider the randomness of chaos some call order whilst
others foist god upon us
All just a smokescreen
Veil like dopamine
Absurdity so vast the alternative
can never sustain its own myth
YET here she was longing
Inadvertently all along
A vapid, vague unconscious desire
for something other than
with its stamp of infinitive &
The writing on the wall
bleeding down wax melting
She had been told all her life to recognize inferiority as her make and model. Alas, The Veracity of that bold claim never quite sit, so she had but one other alternative which was
A room of her own
By the sea
In the clatch
She wanted to know
how there could be
in this land
The perpetrator had everyone convinced his victim, years younger, afraid and exploited for as long as she could remember, sexually and emotionally, psychologically by a male pathology that, quite frankly, ruined her life.
Rather than come clean, he denounced and defamed her further, to the point where she came closest to dying – cheated her of the truth & would have been happy had she, walking evidence of his evil-doing side, a man willing to ruin a grown woman’s life, deny her any healing whatsoever & then rub it in her face by having the perfect family making sure she never got to, was always on her own, the bastard child they all felt deserved a little less, was there for abusing and blaming, a castoff, a throwaway, the girl with no progenitors or forebearers, the woman who got knocked down each time it seemed like she was finally being allowed to breathe, much less recover.
Anonymous she is was has always been
No one to remember her name
No legacy just impermanence flauted in the strangest ways of strangers waiting to unknow what a waste it all turned out to be
A land of vast nothingness
for the lost, loveless and alone
What matter now, a room of her own? With not even the obligatory reverence reserved for our parents
The finality choked her up
Trains rumbled down the hillside
She may as well die
with such bastardized
Erased and invisible she
lived her whole life
And for what?
The manner with which you consciously destroyed
Then pretended you were better than me
It is all I can do not to out you
Knowing you left me for dead
And now everyone calls you a success
And brands me the failure, a disappointment at best, called “crazy” for doing the job well while others shots down for being too hyper (slandered me saying “she’s on drugs”), too thin (instead of hearing me when I said I was physically ill, editors and producers said always behind my back – anorexia or drugs again).
And to be blamed by my last boss for something that never happened (after my supposed friend and coworker who got her job via me – cut my pay rate 36% – while having me work for free for weeks, meaning my worth was less already to these controllers of financial fututes) thus destroying my career, makes it even more difficult to believe my existence matters in any way at all.
Just emptiness is all a person like me can feel – just sad, empty worthlessness- and no one notices much less cares.
Are as dreams that follow