I don’t know if rape jokes encourage rape culture. I don’t care. You still shouldn’t tell them.
Statistically, if you have told a rape joke to a group of more than five people, one of the people you told it to was a rape survivor, possibly of multiple rapes. They will not necessarily disclose this to you; rape apologism is endemic in society and most rape survivors are cautious about whom they tell. Some may even be too ashamed of their rape to admit it to anyone, or because of rape-minimizing narratives like “men can’t be raped” and “I consented to oral, so I couldn’t have been raped” may not admit it even to themselves. The fact remains: if you’ve told dozens of rape jokes in your life, then you have almost certainly told a joke that minimizes or trivializes rape in front of a survivor.
And if you put as your Facebook status “I totally raped at Halo today” for your two hundred Facebook friends to see, statistically, you have just reminded thirty-three people of one of the worst experiences of their entire lives.
To describe how well you did at a video game.
Good job!
—An Addendum, On Rape Jokes (via sighsdreamily)
(via misterlovely)
You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy. I have never met a heavy heart that wasn’t a phone booth with a red cape inside. Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just walk outside.
—Andrea Gibson, “The Nutritionist” (via clipclopclap)
(via misterlovely)
(Source: thresca)
Some people will never understand the kind of super power it takes for some people to just walk outside.
—
Andrea Gibson. (via wallofbooks)
Relevant.
(via missgingerlee)
(Source: viviras, via thesurvivorsmark)
(via captain-funtimes)
Werewolf performed by Sierra DeMulder at the National Poetry Slam Semi’s 2008
“WEREWOLF” BY SIERRA DEMULDER
The sun is setting on our eyelids, so listen to the cadence above my ribcage
something wicked lies here. dormant.
beating the shit out of my insides just to remind me that it’s there.
I am a werewolf.
I walk into the daylight with scratches that came from the darkness of my pores
but I swear, I never wanted to die.
I was 14 years old, barely breasted this thin wrist kiss to kitchen knife on my yellow bedspread with white flowers, no red flowers, no blood,
because it was just a kitchen knife
and I was just seeing how thick the stubborn skin was.
the second was a lady’s razor
the third was an exacto-knife
the fourth was a box cutter, which to this day I still have- it is rusted.
Like ofelia I am attracted to water,
blue handle, red blade,
I have thrown it away twice.
Sent its demons to slice its shadows
waiting until I missed it –the rip- I missed it.
Most people see box cutters and think airplanes, think failed security, think rectangles and pentagons.
Me? I just see red lines like lipstick.
more addictive than cocaine; This is dependence.
Stripped of pipes and filters I am captivated by straight strokes and sharp edges.
My father has been dry for fourteen years, and he tells me,
“An alcoholic is always an alcoholic, and sober is just another word for thirsty.”
my hands are too thirsty to admit on paper the last time I etched regret into my leg because the blade is still in me, this sickness is still in me,
and everyday it calls to me to open up and let it breathe.
I have felt it dancing like the devil in the belt felt metal kissing tissue
howled temptation into my scars when the moon was blackened out
carved “I am better than this” on the inside of my thighs and in the morning the scars just read “Weakness.”
My own fingers are abusive.
So shoot me with a silver bullet,
hold my hands away from their victim.
I do not have layers of eyeliner and teen angst.
I am not a little girl just looking to get looked at.
I do not walk down the street, or across it. I just live there.
This is like breathing in pine pitch.
It’s like the shower water is gasoline and you’re playing with matches.
It’s like looking through a stack of needles for a piece of daylight.
It’s like saying it’s a rusty nail, saying it’s barbed wire, saying it’s a cat scratch-
it’s telling your mother it was an accident.
It’s not doing the one thing you want to when you know it only hurts yourself, so why the hell not?
When all you want to do is break like bones, and go into the drawer that isn’t ever opened anymore.
I am not looking for pity. I have baskets full.
A am not looking for attention, there is a reason you don’t see any scars.
I think it’s sick that this remedy requires something to be broken
veins enclosed with red fencing.
I do not believe the band-aids are healing.
They are just another layer.
This is just another way of feeling.”
(Source: feministmen, via teenageperfectionist)
