Lies and truth. Age old adversaries that have always shared the same ocean, but never more than in our present. We find ourselves in danger of slipping below the surface, unable to rise above the furious onslaught of their waves, our oxygen cut off forever.
Until we make out the faint beams of a lighthouse on the horizon, an oasis that houses the promise of truth. And for the first time in recent memory, it is a promise realized, protecting us from the depths, because falsehoods are no longer welcome when one finally makes landfall.
The clever beauty of I Am Not Your Final Girl, Claire C. Holland’s collection of horror heroine-inspired poetry, is her use of lies to reveal the truth.
None of the events described in its fewer than 100 pages actually happened, but rather delve into the psychology and truth behind moments like them, told through the lenses of survivors from horror films classic and recent. Perspectives and deep rolls that, one way or another, all women can relate to in “the organ-deep way women sense things.”
Holland’s introduction noted that she had “Tired of hearing the same stories, over and over again, of women being harmed and treated like playthings by men with just enough power to take advantage. Tired of feeling a sense of recognition, low and stony in the pit of the stomach, every time I hear one of these stories. Like I’ve been there before, in some other life or just months ago.”
“it’s not the Devil
you need to worry about,
but the devil you know.”
Like a man who says,
“I like a girl with spirit
when what he means is
I like a girl that can break.”
To a woman who,
“Forgets her own name, but not
how it felt
—how it feels—
to be nothing but his idea of her.
A picture on his shelf.”
These poems are tales of possession, abuse, disregard and dominance at the hands of a male-driven society that has existed since the dawn of civilization, which gave birth and rise to—nay necessitated—the #MeToo movement. Eloquent and haunting, I Am Not Your Final Girl brims with passages that will linger long after you’ve put them down, if you can.
Such as Sally Hardesty’s excruciating and traumatic escape in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974),
“There is nothing in this world
like realizing
you’re going to live
and not being sure
you can.”
While the plight of final girls who refused to have their fate dictated singe fingertips with each page turn, they are not shouted. They simply communicate a clear message—no more—words that envelop the reader with recognition and instill a sense of hope and strength that there are many who have endured the same scenarios, who have and continue to emerge from the raging tide with a deeper sense of self and power.
“This is the wake for all things lost.
Like comfort, which has sunk into the mud
along with the body and the lie
that someone else will save you.”
Holland’s words and sentiments echo those of women from every personal and professional walk of life, who are not only weary but resentful of the status quo, who don’t yearn for or need a savior other than themselves. As Holland’s introduction proclaimed, “real women are final girls, and so much more. We are more than a trope.” And over the course of 40 poems, Holland’s words offer glimpses of situations far and wide, sure to connect with every woman everywhere, and in turn, provide reassurance that “something can be vulnerable and powerful at once,” and inspiration to stand their ground, speak their truth, and fight a fight worth fighting.
Like Thomasin rising above her earthly, man-made prison in The VVitch (2015), emerging from beneath an abyss of lies to expose an indisputable truth:
“She is so tired of waiting. She won’t do it anymore.”