Andrea Gibson // Blue Blanket

[shockfactor.livejournal.com]

This popped into my head when having an argument about the Akin comments and the response from some people. I was told that I should go buy a handgun if I didn't want to be raped. And in reply, I sent this powerful piece by Andrea Gibson, titled "Blue Blanket". It's a spoken word piece, and is available on YouTube, iTunes, and as an Amazon.com MP3
if you're interested in supporting the artist.

*Trigger warning: this is a poem about rape. As such, it may be disturbing or upsetting to survivors with PTSD.



Still
there are days
when there is no way
not even a chance
that I dare for even a second glance at the reflection of my body in the mirror and she knows why
like I know why she only cries when she feels she's about to loose control
she knows how much control is worth
knows how much a woman can loose when her power to move
is take away
by a grip so thick with hate it could
clip the wings of god
send the next eight generations of your blood shaking
and tonight something inside me is breaking
my heart beating so deep beneath the sheets of pain
I could give every tear she's crying a name
a year
and a face I'd forever erase if I could just like she would
for you
or me
but how free would any of us be if even a few forgot what too many women in this world cannot
and what the hell would you tell your daughter?
your someday-daughter when you have to hold her beautiful face to the beat-up face of this place that hasn't learned the meaning of STOP
stop
what would you tell you daughter
of the womb raped empty?
the eyes swollen shut, the gut too frightened to hold food, it was seven minutes of the worst kind of hell
seven
and she stopped believing in heaven
mistrust became her law, fear her bible, the only chance of survival
don't trust any of them
bolt the doors to your home, iron-gate the windows, walking to the car alone, get the key in the lock like
please
please, please, please open
like already she can feel the five-fingered noose around her neck, two-hundred pounds of hate digging graves into the sacred soil of her flesh
please
please, please, please, please open
already she can hear the broken-record of the defense:
"answer the question, answer the question, answer the question miss"
why am I on trial for this?
would you talk to your mother, your daughter, your sister like this?
I am generations of mothers, daughters, sisters
bodies battlefields, war zones beneath the weapons of your brothers' hands
do you know they've found land mines in broken women's souls?
black holes in the parts of their hearts that once sang symphonies of creation as bright as the light on infinity's halo?
she said, I remember how love used to glow like glitter on my skin before he made his way in, now every touch feels like a sin that could crucify medusa
kali oshun mary, bury me in a blue blanket so god doesn't know I'm a girl, cut off my curls, I want peace when I'm dead
her friend knocks at the door, it's been three weeks, don't you think it's time you got out of bed? no.
the ceiling fan still feeling like his breath, I think I need just a few more days of rest
bruises on her knees from begging to forget
she's heard stories of vietnam vets who can still feel the tingling of their amputated limbs
she's wondering how many women are walking around this world still feeling the tingling of their amputated wings, remembering what it was to fly, to sing
tonight
she's not wondering what she would tell her daughter
she knows what she would tell her daughter, she'd ask her what gods do you believe in?
I'll build you temple of mirrors so you can see them
pick the brightest star you ever wished on and I'll show the light in you that made that wish come true
tonight
she's not asking what you would tell your daughter, she's life deep in the hell
the slaughter
has already died a thousand deaths with every unsteady breath
a thousand graves ib every pore of her flesh
and she
knows the war's not over, she knows there's bleeding to come
knows she's far from the only woman or girl trusting this world no more than the hands trust rusted barbed wire
she was whole before that night, believed in heaven before that night
and she knows she won't be the only one, no she knows she won't be the only one
she's not asking
what you're gonna tell your daughter, she's asking what
you're gonna teach
you're son.

Comments

[duathir.livejournal.com]

"There are two kinds of warrior in this world; marauders and protectors. We are of the protectors."

[browngirl.livejournal.com]

Ugh, people are often horrible. This is a powerful and awesome poem, and I'm cheering you on in the face of this foolishness.

[moxxyie.livejournal.com]

Andrea Gibson is mind-blowing.

[defyingstars.livejournal.com]

One of my all time favorites. Chills everytime.

[tree]

I was told that I should go buy a handgun if I didn't want to be raped.

what the actual fuck.

[mijeli.livejournal.com]

This.

[haggispatrol.livejournal.com]

IA. What an appalling thing to say.

[teithiwr.livejournal.com]

Oh wow. Incredibly powerful (I watched the youtube vid).

And I'm so sorry people said stuff like that to you - what the HELL is wrong with some people? :(

[scribbled-mess.livejournal.com]

ty for posting such a powerful piece.

do you know they've found land mines in broken women's souls?
black holes in the parts of their hearts that once sang symphonies of creation as bright as the light on infinity's halo?

I liked these lines in particular.