How does it feel to know your work as an artist will always be linked to that of a man’s? But his work won’t always be tied to you — just called out at as a nice aside? “How lucky for her, he loved her so! He was just a passionate artist!” Your wounds a showpiece of his genius. You, a muse, not a man.
Sure, but praying for someone is just an excuse not to move on. There’s nothing empowering in passive aggressive posturing, moral superiority, thinking all the time about someone who violated you, wishing them to see life from your vantage point, rather than building that vantage point so high, you never see them over your fortress-of-a-fence, forget they are trying to get in down below, brick scraping their desperate climbing crawling skin into rows of rotting raspberries. I hope they’re somewhere. Anywhere. As long as it’s away from me.
Does it matter that I wrote the song?
Does it matter who wrote the movie?
Does any of it matter if we pray?
Only if we are what they use to soak up the blood staining their porcelain. Our tails mounted on the walls by the fire extinguisher.
You cannot have a child if you continue to act like that.
Was it the fringe? The fringe was too much?
More likely the dollar sign in your name. That decision stinks of a manager. It’s letting money literally split a self in two.
It’s lucrative when a white girl does it. I’m just being Miley! But, like, Ke$ha. It’s nice to see you smile sometimes.
How did you not know?
I’m sorry for what has happened to you. I’m proud of how you’ve handled yourself.
Are you excited or ashamed of the world you’ve left behind for women?
This is my world. I just live in it.
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