Beetlejuice (1988)

The closest I’ve ever been to a crime scene is the stairwell where I had my body ripped in two

(my mind still wanders there, sifting for clues). 

Your Honour- I introduce Exhibit A: 

Torn underwear, a bruised pelvis and a mouth full of silence 

In a plastic bag for the ladies and gentlemen of the jury. 

To the Defence: look into my eyes and tell me I’m lying- please, 

Because I can’t process the clockwork murder that man made of my own body. 

I carry hot pink pepper spray like lipstick- 

does that prove fear for you?

Is the fact that I can’t eat without throwing up indication enough for the horrors I endured? 

Will you please protect me? 

Because I can’t sleep anymore. 

I can’t eat anymore.

I lost myself to him.

Exhibit B: let the jury read a phone full of messages, 

Coerced consent, 

“I’ll leave you if you don’t do this”, he said. 

My mother asks me what I stayed for and all I can muster is a croaky 

“I loved him, mama”

Ladies and gentlemen- 

Won’t you pry inside me like he did?

Follow me down the tunnel he dug between my legs?

Believe me when I say I am terrified. 

Icy blue eyes, 

Claws for hands and 

Lips that shushed me when I screamed. 

Exhibit C: I offer me. 

Can’t you see my body is a funeral pyre now? 

Can’t you see that this is the scene of the crime? 

How humiliating this process is. 

How it makes me wish I never said anything at all.

here darling. summer isn’t so bright this year so come lean on my shoulder and baptise your sorrows in the valleys of my body. I know you’re crumbling under the weight of it all so lean on me until you’re strong enough to walk again. some flowers don’t have sturdy stems, and that’s okay. doesn’t make them any less beautiful, right? let my arms be your peace until the world outside stops sounding so much like violence, the chaos and busyness of it all. come, my love. mind over matter. you’ll start feeling like yourself again, I promise. love is being the hook, line and sinker. love is being the fish and the fisherman. love is knowing that sometimes it isn’t 50/50, that sometimes I must give more than I take. but love is also knowing you’d do the same for me any day of the week.

Love is admitting I’m human but hey, so are you and we’re doing our best and hoping our best is enough. Love is a coffee mug accompanied with an apology and a tight hug. Love is asleep on the couch, love plays way too many video games, love needs reassurance, love is messy, disorganised, flawed, irritating. Love is human.

i related a lot to your post about not being able to listen to a band. drinking wine and listening to music was most of my relationship with my ex and i couldn’t listen to our favourite band for months. it does get better you do start to forget the memories behind songs and then you get to create new ones. it does get better 💖

hello my love! it means the world you relate to my writing. love is a powerful and risky vice, huh? sending you all the light in the world, angel, because losing somebody you felt had one half of your heart is fucking painful. it does get better, slowly each wave of despair gets less devestating. my messages are open if you ever need to talk lovely❤️

cherry picking things to smile about this summer. I need these things to keep going. all this love, food, films, songs...I grin, take big bites until I have a mouthful of sweetness. things are bad again. I’m tired and sad and slow all over again. everything that used to be colourful is grey and dark, depression is the fog that covers everything. but it’ll get better. I know it. with all this love and art and music, I’ll feel alive again.

self destruction is an interesting thing!

see, I turn silent during sex. my voice buries itself in my throat like a messy bloodclot. how could I be anything other than passive anyway? anything other than silent? my abuser carries my voice around like his souvenir, has split my body in two and took one half with him. left me with skin I don’t recognise, a body that still mistakes warmth for war. i turn silent during sex. let his hands paint orchids on my neck, let his fingers climb up me in search of my secrets, let his body into mine until I have nowhere to put the bad memories. this body isn’t mine. I don’t think it ever will be.

childhood trauma culture is constantly seeking validation because no matter how many times it is confirmed that you were abused, you can’t help but feel like a fake because others have had it “worse” than you or the abuse wasn’t “bad” enough

Marilyn Monroe (by Sam Shaw 1956)

HUNTER SCHAFER for Givenchy at Paris Fashion Week 2019