The Dadaist

Original text: Huffpost Article

 

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The Shell Game [TW]

Note to Readers: This piece contains descriptors of violent physical abuse, mental and emotional abuse, and allusion to sexual abuse/assault. Read at your own discretion.

If you’re interested in supporting survivors: Donate to RAINN

 

They live in our houses,
our communities.
They work with us
and are integral to our
daily lives;
we bequeath them with titles:
Grandmother – Mother – Daughter
Sister – Aunt – Niece – Cousin
Wife – Girlfriend – Best Friend

However there are others
who see them as less
and reduce them to nothing
but objects for the amusements of
small men;
things to be rated and taken apart,
drained and damaged,
thrown against walls and onto floors,
then discarded when the novelty fades
and threatened into conformity with
authority and deceit.

First and foremost
these women are people,
and many are

tortured

shattered

humiliated

bitter

furious

Too often they fall between the cracks.
They get lost in the shell game
abusers love to play
(Shuffle the cups, where’s the ball? You lose, sucker!)
and we can’t keep letting them down,
letting them suffer alone,
weeping and bloody in the
indignity of darkness.
No more silence.
No more secrets.
No more denial.
No more intimidation.
No more.

Music Box Ballerina

Hands in the air,
Spinning around,
Stuck to a pedestal,
Lost in the sound.

Why am I here?
Can’t anyone see?
I need to get out,
I long to be free.

Trapped in a box,
I perform to amuse;
They watch and they mock,
They jeer and abuse.

So I keep pretending
And dance with a smile;
When the music winds down
I can dream for a while.

Imperfections

I sit alone within myself,
taking stock of all the things
I deem broken and useless.
Too often I seek to destroy
everything that makes me unique;
I know my imperfections are mine,
they are Me,
but I can’t help but wonder sometimes:
What if they didn’t exist?
And each time a small voice
huddled somewhere in the corner
behind the clutter whispers,
“Then neither would you.”