The Funhouse or the Junkyard

It is only by putting into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together. —Virginia Woolf, A Sketch of the Past

My body was a funhouse of which I was unaware
I had curves as slides for you to ride
Mysterious rooms of porcelain skin
My eyes were mirrors that reflect and distort
Over and under, above and below

My protests were barrels that you effortlessly surmounted
No means yes means yes means no means yes
How can you flash your lights at me and not expect a show?
That is what you told me when you pushed in, unbidden
Revelling and trampling in mystery rooms marked ‘forbidden’

Why are you crying, did I give you a fright?
If not built for fun, why do you have so many delights?

And then I realised what my funhouse had become
A junkyard where all broken women are torn and dumped
The sanctuary of our psyche, hopes and dreams
Condensed into a distorted funhouse for you to have then discard
Discard then have — oh isn’t it great?

If only you see the junkyard you create
I’ve become accustomed to shedding rotten relics
Mending holes in my psyche where they cannot be mended
Perhaps one day the rust will recede
And all my decayed former selves will crawl back to my shell

But until that day I will scour this wasteland
Finding all parts of myself that were forcefully buried
Exhume them, hold them, attach them on slowly
And know that, in time
They will regain their former glory.