Dark Glitter: Whisper

Dark Glitter: Whisper



Today is a day when the shadows reach long. When my feet are sodden and my throat is crushed, again. When bruises tint my skin and my wounds seep.

Today the women march, powered by each other’s strength; a battle-cry, an army, a war. Their fierceness moves me. The women are brave, I am proud. I have stood alongside them in rage and joy.

Today is the day to roar. It is time to be heard. To be believed. How many have spoken since I did eleven years ago? Hundreds, thousands found courage, found voice. This volley of truth that will not stop shall be listened to and absorbed, no longer silenced.

No more blind eye.

Today grief hangs like smirr as I sit, pen in hand, damp from the shower. Everything is a shadow, a glint. The parts of my body, the thoughts that I have, the memories that stun me like a taser from decades before. I am a sliver of myself.

Now, I murmur, they would see that I had spoken the truth, that I should have been heard. There would be no more excuses. No more turning away, gently tumbling the bomb from their hands.

No more denial.

I can scream louder than them, I have learned new words. I can be fierce.

Soon it will be the time to speak again and to shout, but today I can only whisper.

Dark Glitter: Some Of Us

Dark Glitter: Some Of Us

Some Of Us


Imagine a world where women have no power.

Where men decide on the salaries we can earn, the jobs we can take, the support we can have when pregnant, or when mothers, or for our vaginas. The wars that we can or cannot fight in. The clothes that we should or shouldn’t wear, and the media which we view the uncomfortable narratives of ourselves in.

Imagine that men can create replicas of ourselves, without minds or words or wombs, that are made to fuck, to dominate, and even to love. That men can take our real bodies and objectify them, harass them, abuse, rape, murder, and sometimes dismember them, and have built industries upon this in film, pornography, and gaming worth billions. Imagine a world where our bodies are vessels for rape as a weapon of war, as a warning to oppressed communities because we cannot escape.

And when we voice this, for ourselves and for those that cannot, men mock us and silence us and deflect us whilst they continue to do whatever they want. They turn us, divisively, cleverly, against one another to eat our own alive.

Now imagine a world where women blame us for wanting too much in equal pay. For our looks, our youth, or our age. Where we are despised for our sexual appetites or for our errant husbands. For uttering painful secrets that are stifled until we can bear to speak about the crimes of men. Or for not speaking up, not being responsible for preventing men committing these crimes again. About not knowing better, or knowing too much.

And when we surge, in a hopeful, zeitgeist tide of strength, some of us push back, hard. We are minimised. We are muted. We are again unheard. We are safely crushed into boxes of blame by some of our own.

Why? Because the reality is terrifying: as women the power is not yet ours to take. For some of us, the myth of our own blame makes a world ruled by men seem a safer place.

If we would only shut up.

But we won’t. We will speak louder, we will shout. For all of us.