A room of one’s own


George Eliot 

Presumably had an opinion

about the need

for such things 

A gaggle of girls
We’re gonna take it

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

    she faltered

    awaylike silly putty

    used to patch

    the cracks 

    left

    as after-thoughts

    in waves of

    After-shocks

    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

    she said

    crossed her off the list

    til the sting of residual glut

    Absolute beauty &

    insolent truth

    The modeling agency turned her down

    The dealer picked her up


    Feb 12, 2017 4:48 PM
    Build you
    Cock
    The hammer
    Don’t give in

     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

    This

    with its stamp of infinitive &

    certainty 

    The writing on the wall

    bleeding down wax melting

    smudges 

    easily

    like 

    reverently 

    adhering

    to lies 

    the universe

    tells

    as the

    Moonscape 

    glistens 

    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

    Of infinity

    In the clatch 

    of doom

    The bypass 

    of gloom

    She wanted to know 

    but instantaneously 

    realized 

    how there could be 

    no knowing

    in this land

    of impeccable 

    lies.

    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.


    Oh, what might have been? 
     

    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

    Than collide 

    with such bastardized 

     infinitude

    Erased and invisible she 

    lived her whole life 

    And for what? 

    For what? 


    The ways you ruined me

    The manner with which you consciously destroyed

    Systematically demonized 

    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

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