Dany Lyne / Toronto / 11.23.15
What story do you want?
The story of how I was perceived as a white, blue-eyed, blond girl?
The story of the princess in a cardboard castle?
The story of my father's and grandfather's sexual abuse?
The story about mother knowing?
The story of my grandmother loving me to bits?
Their stories and why they couldn't protect me?
Or do you want the story of how I coped?
How I forgot it all?
How fucked up and fucked over I was?
How addicted I was to over-the-counter and street drugs?
To just about anything that would numb me,
Or maybe you just want to know how it stopped?
Or how I stopped?
Or what the fuck rattled me so hard to kill the blur?
Or maybe you just want to know the end?
When art screamed through my veins loud enough to
screech the truth,
to raise the curtain
and let it fall,
waking me up to my memories
of my victimization
again and again
until it stopped,
until I stopped.
When I sat,
When I paused.
When I meditated.
When I practised yoga.
When at fifty-two I stand on my head.
Because the whole thing is behind me.
The world is upside down.