look what you made me do

I admit it, I’m a Swiftie.


But then, I love almost all kinds of music.

fit into lyrics

Right now, Taylor is pastel.  Before that, she was black leather and red lipstick and snakes and diamonds. Before that, this. Before that, that. Before that, country.

Some people, people who are kind of judge-y, might say that Taylor is a Philistine.

Whatever, losers.

I mean, I get it: she writes songs about guys who hurt her feelings.  Hmmmm. That sounds familiar.  But I can see how that makes her a target for fancy intellectual types.

Whatever, losers.

I sometimes try to calculate which is my favorite Taylor Swift song and it’s like I wrote previously about my favorite sexual position: whatever one I’m experiencing right then.

I guess I could narrow it down to three that I haven’t already posted.

And then there’s this: I’ve had so many more travails than Taylor.

True, she had some guy grab her ass while she was taking a promotion photo.  He sued her for getting him fired, which the jury decided she didn’t do with malice, and she counter-sued him for $1 and won then donated the money to charity.

That’s pretty fucking cool, but surely that isn’t enough to make up for being a pop star?

Shouldn’t I hate her for being so glib? For complaining about first-world problems? I mean, she’s blonde and wealthy and skinny and that’s enough reason to hate her, right?

Whatever, losers.

I love Taylor Swift because she is fun. My life has known some very dark moments. Things done to me by people who should have known better. Grief and disassociation and one serious bout of sucidal ideation.  If there were a song written about my history, it wouldn’t be Taylor Swift… it would be… something more intense… louder, angrier, bigger. Something more like these songs.

But there is a place for all of this expression in music.

Which brings me back to what I said at the beginning: I love music.

I also love having the perspective to realize that I have survived, and I can do it again.

I have danced around the word “rape” vis-à-vis my own personal experience, but I am not going to do that anymore.

I am brave, I am bruised, I am who I’m meant to be.

This is me.


a wooden shoe, a monkey wrench,
a Molotov scorching the air,
a false pretense, a bald-faced lie,
a heart sadly too hurt to care.

I’ve been threatened,
I’ve been tarnished:
no more, I say, no more.

some loaded dice, some loaded words,
some gaslighting blinding my sight,
some sarcasm, some soul-shaming,
some horrors which darken the night.

I’ve been bullied,
I’ve been battered:
no more, I say, no more.

all the reasons, none of the truth,
nothing but fiction, bullshit, spin,
excuses and tactics and slander,
to further an at-all-cost win.

I’ve been abused,
I’ ve been attacked:
no more, I say, no more.

in the stark absence of mercy,
in the cold, hard light of dead love,
one finds out what she is made of,
when push comes to requisite shove.

I’ve been redeemed,
I’ve been remade:
I won’t be raped again.

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Hours I own all of these ideas, but none of these images.
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