Delicate Feral – Bambi-Rose Woodward

Category: Poetry

  • Medusa Eyes

    Artificial niceties have never been my mask,

    Dousing fuel on the fire, hear it speak for me.

    There’s integrity in the flame of a forbidden task

    Loyalty rises from ashes of pitiful destiny

    Once warmth from your lips, a whisper turns cold

    Your joy in my prosecution remains untold

    Cursed with Medusa eyes and a habit of exile,

    As I called for mercy, I caught you smile

    When I looked to you, your smurk turned to stone,

    I’m sorry, sweet girl, that you were left alone.

    Turning to fire as she crumbles away,

    Still dancing in the smoke of yesterday.

    My heart’s erratic, my ribs are glass,

    An acidic tongue, my mind like a riot,

    Bleeding spells from the horrors of my past

    Your fraudulent care worn to keep me quiet

    I sit amongst the rubble of those I saw before

    Smashing the poor souls of my array

    Asking to be held, but my stare pleads for more

    Bringing myself to dance alone, blooming from our decay

    Cursed with Medusa eyes and a habit of exile,

    As I called for mercy, I caught you smile

    When I looked to you, your smurk turned to stone,

    I’m sorry, sweet girl, that you were left alone.

    Turning to fire as she crumbles away,

    Still dancing in the smoke of yesterday.

  • Mercy & Her Sword

    Bambi Valentine performing BambiVora – Wonderful World, a political satire bubble act at Alias Cabaret. Photos by a Martian.

    My heart aches in the face of hatred.
    There is a time for rage – a necessity for violence.
    But even when I, too, raise discord, I will not praise the sword.

    I may speak with acidity, perhaps callous humour,
    yet my heart will not turn to stone.

    I will not lose my humanity.
    I will not let their hatred defeat me.
    My life, my love, my place in this world
    means more than some maggot with a mic.

    I do not fraternise with false niceties,
    but I will not lose my heart.

    I will not become the picture
    they so viciously try to paint.
    If I raise the sword, it is with mercy
    and I pray the same is granted upon me.

    The patterns of time scream torturous warning.
    I brace, armed with reason,
    And fire in my blood.

    This time is wicked, and hatred can be vile…
    yet song, and wonder, and a child’s laugh
    will not allow me
    to reciprocate such cruelty.

  • Performance is not Peace

    My body became a shrine to survival; each muscle a memory, each pose a plea.

    Applause became permission. Stillness became safety.

    This body trained diligently – Muscle control. Focus. Engage. Hold form. Strong core. Soft face. Light arms. Poise.

    Still body-fast mind. Fast body-still mind.

    But trauma is stored. And an actor’s body is prepared for war.

    Yet, performance is not peace.

    I am unlearning the altar. Unlocking the gates to inprisoned secrets held in a tightly wound core.

    Letting it return to its rightful rhythm. Un-conditioning my body – one trained to obey breath, correct form, engage centre, so acutely aware, not missing a beat. Ready! Responsive! Alert!

    This is release. This is unfamiliar. Soft. Relaxed. Unveiling. A rush.

    Let the blood flow.

  • Feeding on Dreams that Never Lived

    Photo of Bambi Valentine performing at Mx Burlesque in Canberra 2023, by Captavitae Photography.

    I keep brushing past lives I never lived.

    The house with warm light never built.

    The arms that never reached.

    A table I set, but fed only scraps.

    A version of me who offered warm embrace,

    was secure without asking,

    who loved without shying,

    and laughed without hiding.

    Sometimes I miss artificial dreams —

    a fantasy never manifested.

    And sometimes, that hurts more

    than the ache for a friend,

    more than the familiar lines on a face,

    or the echo of a life never created.

    I don’t grieve for people —

    who rationed their warmth,

    who justified betrayal,

    who grinned at their beration.

    I can’t want for people —

    who seek cruel joy in their belittling,

    who calculated love at their disposal;

    those who cut me down

    to build their dwindling reputation.

    With integrity of pittance,

    and loyalty of a vulture.

    But still, I long to be inside

    the world I thought we mustered —

    the closeness I imagined.

    I keep searching

    for a place I swore was once provided —

    a safety I invented,

    that maybe I was foolish to feel;

    … as I mistook it for belonging.

  • Support Isn’t Symbolic

    Bambi Valentine, Self Portrait. Canberra.

    Giving evidence in a rape case isn’t a favour to the victim. It doesn’t prove your loyalty. It doesn’t make you an ally.

    It’s about truth. It’s about justice for all the victims of sexual assault. It’s about holding a rapist accountable. It’s about integrity.

    You wore the shirts. You chanted the slogans. You got your photo in the paper.

    But when it mattered – when it was someone close to you – I didn’t count. It wasn’t the right kind of rape. I wasn’t the right kind of victim. It wasn’t violent enough, or clear enough, or traumatic enough for your comfort.

    “At least it’s not as bad as being assaulted by someone you didn’t know. Like, you’ve been with him before.” Too many have said that – as if betrayal by someone I trusted hurts less. As if that makes it not real. As if the erosion of consent in love is somehow more forgivable.

    You were tired of the cycle I was caught in, so you centred yourselves in my trauma. “It’s been hard for us too.” And suddenly, you decided I didn’t matter anymore. Suddenly, your comfort came before justice.

    “I’m not going to be quiet, I’m not going to stay silent about this any longer,” “You can do it. It’s hard, but it’s ok. We all support you, will love you and will help you through this. It’s not your fault.” All just words. Your words. All just performance.

    Support isn’t symbolic. Allyship isn’t aesthetic. And “but whatever, peace sign” isn’t neutral. It’s cruel. It’s taunting. It’s dismissive. It echoes violence. You’re not the victim in this, no matter how hard you try to spin it.

    They keep saying, “It’s not about you” in response to my pain in my rape case. That’s not just dismissive – it’s gaslighting. You can keep shifting your discomfort from you to me – but silence, complicity, or cowardice rings louder – the alarm bells of failure in allyship, and betrayal of friendship.

    I stood there, guts turned inside out, while you debated whether my trauma was inconvenient to your peace. Surrounded by people too busy making my rape about them, while I was left standing there – alone.

    Still standing.