Tired of what ifs
I ask impulsively
I seek knowledge within experiences
Truth in the moment
What is real may be up to the operator
Of a simple
One may choose a destiny
I found myself on a long road
One that revealed myself to me
I do like to think that I have a way with words. I like to think that my vocabulary is strong, and my way of stringing words together is eloquent. I like to think that I could write a good poem in a minute, or a good story in an hour. But you see, when she embodies all the words I have, I find it hard to come up with new ones and ways to say the things I want to tell her. How can I write about one who is everything?
It’s funny how when somebody leaves you, you’ll turn to anything that’ll hurt as much as they did.
Maybe you’ll pick a new brand of gin or drink a shot of whiskey every time you think about him. You’ll tell yourself that it’s because you want to forget his name, but you know that he’ll spin in circles around your head the same way the room is spinning around your vision.
Maybe you’ll try to smoke him out of your lungs. Maybe you’ll find your nails turning yellow but you’ll still inhale with every breath because you’d rather taint your blood than think about the fact that he still lives under your skin like a cloud of smoke.
Maybe you’ll kiss a lot of strangers whose names you don’t know because you’ll tell yourself that you can’t taste the past in someone new- but you still do. You still feel him with every lips you touch and God, do you wish you weren’t kissing anyone but the one person you’re not supposed to think about.
Maybe you’ll tell your best friend that the pain is gone. Maybe you’ll tell them that you don’t even think about it anymore, honestly. Funny because you know you still listen to his voicemails on repeat like a song stuck in your head. Funny because you know your best friend knows it too.
Funny because you won’t admit it to yourself, but you’ll do anything to a feel a pain worse than him leaving. You’ll look for anything that’ll push that boundary, anything to remind you of him even if it’s just a reminder of the way he left you. Funny because you tell yourself you’re doing it because you’re trying to get over him, but really you’re only doing it to try to forget that he ever left.
Throughout 2016, I hope you learn to love yourself. I hope that you surround yourself with the most positive of people. I hope that when people ask you how you’re doing, you can say that you’re doing great and truly mean it. I hope that you fall in love with the world around you, and end up loving life. But most importantly, I hope that 2016 is the year that everything in your life falls into place, and you finally start living.
how old were you when they told you that your body was a temple you weren’t allowed to let other people into? that your hallowed soul would somehow rot and grow mold if you let another human being’s breath caress the tops of your shoulders, the curve of your neck?
because i was seven. my father said, “your body is a gift, save it.” i am not an object. i am not an object.
“it’s good to cover up.” no. i cover up mistakes, i cover up failures. i am not either one of these, and it has taken me years to train myself out of believing it. if i must lay eyes on every whitehair chest of lobster-red old men in their wrinkly skin and saggy swimsuit bottoms, you can handle my spaghetti straps, my dresses above the knee, my shorts, my v-neck tee.
“what will people think?” well given that when i dress modestly i’m seen as a prude and a frigid bitch, i’m going to assume they’re thinking something insidious. the happy thing is: their thoughts don’t change my reality. i am not defined by them. you can’t tell me who i am. you don’t own this. you will never own this.
“leave something to the imagination.” your problem is the reality of my body, and i’m not sorry. you hate that you can’t imagine me flawless, no scars, no scabby shins, not a real human. in your head, you photoshop onto me large breasts that stay perky without a bra, hips without stretchmarks, a spine without freckles. but i am real, and these are all beautiful, and you should feel blessed you look upon them.
“no man wants a woman like that.” that’s fine with me. i don’t want a man who judges me for showing off my body. in fact, some of us don’t want a man at all. sadly for you, i don’t dress to impress strangers. i dress because it’s summer, and i’m hot, and i don’t just mean the temperature. and for the record? when i do dress for my man in skimpy little booty shorts? he doesn’t seem to have much of a problem with or without it. he loves me for who i am and not the purpose i serve as an object.
and i am not an object. i am not an object. you don’t get to sum up my personality based on my clothing. you cannot hold a book and look at the cover and tell me the whole story. you cannot look at me and know anything. i am not just a book. i’m a nation of libraries.
i do not become unholy for a strapless dress. i do not lose myself for daring to wear a skirt with a slit up the leg. “ladies, your body is sacred, make sure you dress in clothing i personally find demure and satisfyingly modest” sounds a lot like you think you’re a god and only you can determine whether or not i'm worthy of eternal damnation.
i got news for you, buddy.
i’m a goddess. i don’t ask for permission.
Let me dress for the weather without comment. I don’t care if you “don’t like the packaging.” I’m not a package, and even if I was, it’s not to your house I’ll be showing up. // r.i.d
Looking back, I can’t remember the truth. I blew everything out of proportion so I could feel the hurt and betrayal and write about it in vivid detail. It was my own method of torture. My own undoing; and I enjoyed every second of it.