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It’s a new soundtrack 💙 Here are the back covers and vault track titles for 1989 (my version) I can’t wait for this one to be out, seriously. Thank you for playing along, sleuthing, puzzling and making these reveals so much chaotic fun (which is the best kind of fun, after all 😜) 

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Taylor Swift performs onstage during “The Eras Tour” at  Raymond   James Stadium on April 13, 2023 in Tampa, Florida. (Photo by Octavio Jones/TAS23/Getty Images for for TAS Rights Management)  

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Reminders of Him

My first sexual assault encounter occurred when I was 7. He was a family member. My second encounter occurred when I was 19. I was drunk, maybe it was my own fault. The boy I liked made his friend switch places with him. We were in a dark room, my hands were touching him, he laughed, I realized it was not who I thought it was. My most recent sexual assault encounter occurred when I was 23. He was my friend. I’ve replayed that encounter over in my head more than any other moment in my life. I don’t understand that. There were so many more memorable moments. Moments that I could live in forever. But instead that’s the one I continue to live in. I remember it was October. It was a few months after I had gotten out of an abusive relationship. One that changed me as a person. It was so easy for people to judge me after that. The weight gain, the change in my attitude, in my body but they don’t understand that I almost didn’t recover. I remember sitting in my car on the side of the road crying, contemplating getting out. I knew that in a split second I could make all the pain go away but then my mom texted. She doesn’t know it but she saved my life that day. Fast forwarded to October. I was still recovering. 5 years later I am still recovering. He knew that. I was always transparent about that relationship because I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst enemy. He was a mutual friend of my ex and I. He knew I was broken, hurting, tarnished but that didn’t stop him. He had wanted to come over, for no reason other than sex. It had happened once before with him. An awkward encounter to say the least. But I told him no. I read the messages over and over again wondering if in any part of them I confused him, if I had slipped up but I just kept saying no. I could’ve stayed in bed, not gone and got me, maybe I was asking for it by doing so. No maybe didn’t mean anything to him since I went out of my way to pick him up. But he was my friend. We had hung out many times before. Nothing happened. He had been drinking. I could smell it on him. Again, I reassured him that I just wanted to watch a movie. The moments after that are a blur. I remember laying there, unable to move, I remember the weight of his body on mine, I remember when he got off. I rolled over, we didn’t say another word to each other. I tucked it deep away in the back of my mind but for a year I didn’t let anyone touch me. I thought it was normal. That I just wanted to make sure the next guy was the right one but the truth was that I felt filthy, disgusted, shameful of the body I once took pride in. I told him what he had done to me, years later, in an Applebees booth. He said he was sorry, I believed him. But sorry doesn’t undo an action so vile that when you’re 27 and living out your dream that you no longer let your boyfriend touch you because a man who was suppose to be your friend took away the one thing you felt powerful about. We spoke briefly after that. It is easier to pretend that someone is good than to accept the bad they’ve done. But you can’t hide the pain forever. It seeps into your veins, a toxin, waiting to kill you. It took 5 years for me to delete him off social media out of the guilt I felt about the situation. The unwavering idea that it was my fault. That I confused him. That I in some way invited it in. But I laid there and my body screamed for him to stop and I don’t understand how he didn’t hear the silence and the discomfort and not know. So now, five years later, broken, bleeding, filthy, yearning, I no longer accept the blame and it’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life to finally accept what he took from me.

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A woman’s body is always something. Before it is given away to a man on our wedding day, it’s a temple. A place of purity. When it appears on the front of magazine covers; toned, tanned and casting envy, it is a career. When it holds a child, a gift from God, new life; it is a vestal. When it mocks you in the mirror because you’re a size 16 and not a size 2, it is disgusting. It is labeled and named and used for purposes both agreed upon and not. But what is it when he holds you down and presses his chest on top of you? When you beg him not to but he doesn’t listen, he ignores your pleases and cries and this body, this temple, this vestal, this strength, this disgust, this judgement, what is it? Because you can’t wash off the skin that is layered with his touch. How is it a temple when he forced himself inside? Is it still pure because it wasn’t your choice and you’re engulfed by his filth, encased in his black mass? And you can’t dare make a career out of the curves of your hips because his hands prints are carved into them. And you pray it’s not a vestal because to grow something from hatred and pain can’t possibly be a gift from God and you wished you could look at yourself and judge your size 6 curves, 10 sizes down in a matter of months because the food tastes too bitter and when you put something to your mouth you are scared it is his lips and you can hear him shushing you in the dark and you spit in disgust, you’re sick and this body is no longer just something. It’s him, it’s his. A woman’s body is always something, but it should never be someone.

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U kno sometimes u just gotta eat some garlic bread and move on

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why am i dressed slutty you ask? to read classic literature alone in my room. mind your own business.

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this isn’t fun anymore i need a kiss

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because I’m an addict too

“I’ve got a hamper full of really loud mistakes and a graveyard in my closet. I’m afraid if I let you see my skeletons, you’ll grind the bones into powder and get high on my fault lines.”

-Rudy Francisco

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