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- Thread starter zachatree
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I can't decide on one... so I'll post a few.
Original image and detail links are here [http://fc39.deviantart.com/fs21/f/2007/285/e/6/e61c252f7534511d.jpg] and it's really worth a look.
And I would have to say I adore the movie Pan's Labyrinth, along with the Dark Side Of The Moon album by Pink Floyd.
Oh, as a final note, Sigur Ros's concert.
Original image and detail links are here [http://fc39.deviantart.com/fs21/f/2007/285/e/6/e61c252f7534511d.jpg] and it's really worth a look.
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Is this what it means to be a woman? To have the smell of your body coming from me, to have your bite marks on my skin, to feel brutalised by you? I wouldn?t say that I love you, but you give me something that I thought I would never find. A feeling of being sexy, being attractive without being drunk. Even when you?re holding my arm over the stove, you?re turned on by me. Or turned on by whatever it is you do to me. When you put your hands around my throat last night in bed and choked me, was that an affirmation of my femininity? Does that fear I have, does that ? more than biology ? does that make me a woman? Forget the way my body is formed: my gender is in the thoughts in my head, the dry feeling of disgust in my mouth when you slide your hands over me, the revulsion at your assumption that you own me. To be a woman is to be constantly terrified.
The memories of last night make me want to vomit. One of your hands over my mouth, the other around my neck, your hips thrusting against mine, delicate smears of blood on the bed sheets. A scream half vocalised, but I knew no one could hear it. It wasn?t quite rape. I have to hold onto that thought. It hurts there, between my legs, and there are fresh fucking flowers blossoming over my breasts. It hurts to piss. You have turned the most sacred parts of me into pornography, into a crumpled Kleenex on the floor.
Shit, and now I?ve started to gag, convulsing as my body tries wildly to purge you from my system. I can smell your semen on me, like rotting meat and stale sweat. The scent sticks to my skin and no matter how hard I scrub, I can still smell you. I wonder for a second if you?re clean, but then I realise it doesn?t really matter because you?re slowly destroying my body anyway. If you?re going to kill me, I?m scared it?s not going to be quick ? that would be just like you. Fear seizes me again, and more vomit cascades from my limp body, curled over the toilet bowl. I don?t want to die. I whimper as a fresh bruise on my arm brushes against myself. Turning my arm over, I realise it?s a bite mark. I can?t stop vomiting.
You couldn?t look into my eyes as you corrupted me. This is the one victory I have. You own my freedom, the inside of my head and even my naked body. But you can?t have the look of disappointment in my eyes, whatever you do to me. This is mine, if only this.
To be a woman is to be controlled.
Is this what it means to be a woman? To have the smell of your body coming from me, to have your bite marks on my skin, to feel brutalised by you? I wouldn?t say that I love you, but you give me something that I thought I would never find. A feeling of being sexy, being attractive without being drunk. Even when you?re holding my arm over the stove, you?re turned on by me. Or turned on by whatever it is you do to me. When you put your hands around my throat last night in bed and choked me, was that an affirmation of my femininity? Does that fear I have, does that ? more than biology ? does that make me a woman? Forget the way my body is formed: my gender is in the thoughts in my head, the dry feeling of disgust in my mouth when you slide your hands over me, the revulsion at your assumption that you own me. To be a woman is to be constantly terrified.
The memories of last night make me want to vomit. One of your hands over my mouth, the other around my neck, your hips thrusting against mine, delicate smears of blood on the bed sheets. A scream half vocalised, but I knew no one could hear it. It wasn?t quite rape. I have to hold onto that thought. It hurts there, between my legs, and there are fresh fucking flowers blossoming over my breasts. It hurts to piss. You have turned the most sacred parts of me into pornography, into a crumpled Kleenex on the floor.
Shit, and now I?ve started to gag, convulsing as my body tries wildly to purge you from my system. I can smell your semen on me, like rotting meat and stale sweat. The scent sticks to my skin and no matter how hard I scrub, I can still smell you. I wonder for a second if you?re clean, but then I realise it doesn?t really matter because you?re slowly destroying my body anyway. If you?re going to kill me, I?m scared it?s not going to be quick ? that would be just like you. Fear seizes me again, and more vomit cascades from my limp body, curled over the toilet bowl. I don?t want to die. I whimper as a fresh bruise on my arm brushes against myself. Turning my arm over, I realise it?s a bite mark. I can?t stop vomiting.
You couldn?t look into my eyes as you corrupted me. This is the one victory I have. You own my freedom, the inside of my head and even my naked body. But you can?t have the look of disappointment in my eyes, whatever you do to me. This is mine, if only this.
To be a woman is to be controlled.
And I would have to say I adore the movie Pan's Labyrinth, along with the Dark Side Of The Moon album by Pink Floyd.
Oh, as a final note, Sigur Ros's concert.
