Sshh. No one cares.

Hello. It’s that time of the year again.

It’s the festival of abuse. Make sure you don’t miss out on the great parades of my pain and the undignified images of my self! Proudly brought to you by the lazy society of PR activists.

Here’s the secret. No one cares.

No one cares that you’re such a great designer, and actually, I cried when I saw your art. I cried because you don’t respect me, you don’t respect my pain. I cried myself to sleep because you care so much about my pain that you used it to promote your art.

 

Thanks for that.

No one cares. No one cares that you made yourself look ‘ugly’ with a costume of my pain. No one cares that you can “pull off any look” – even the bruises and [fake] tears of my battered self. No one cares that you’re a beautiful celebrity who cares enough to cover your face with a mask of my own.

Thank you for joining my struggle. Your activism is really making a difference.

No one cares that you’re good with words. No one cares that you read an inspiring speech. No one cares that you told me to be strong, and be happy I’m alive. No one cares that you’re glad I’m alive. No one cares that you talk a big game but you haven’t done anything to protect me.

Thanks for taking the time to launch a PR campaign based on the fact that I’m assaulted and raped everywhere I exist.

Hi, I’m No one. I don’t care for your cotton-candy activism against abuse when you won’t even train your law enforcement to protect me.

When you won’t save me from the poverty I run to in order to escape my abuser.

When you won’t even give me the space to hurt without blaming me.

When you won’t even help me recover without acting like nothing happened.

 

I cry alone for 349 days in the year, and you chose these 16 to parade my hurt and pretend to be crying with me. I don’t care.

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