Women have been so often cast as mothers, potential mothers, caretakers, servants, assistants, and handmaidens of all sorts that it’s become a conscious but also unconscious expectation that anyone who isn’t - at least some of the time - must be inherently unnatural. And when we find a woman who doesn’t fit this mold, we work hard to sweep her back into her box, because if she gets out, well…it might mean she has the ability to take on a multitude of roles.
Don’t call me your soulmate.
You and I both know it has been 6 months since that has meant anything.
Now those words are just hollow habits, shells of love that are broken and fragile.
Fired from your shotgun,
those words mean nothing compared to the holes in my chest.
Bandaids will not fix this.
When I say “minor things”
I mean, fighting with you was like cuts and bruises,
while leaving you is like a gaping hole in my chest.
It is a museum for people to see how hurt I am, and take souvenirs as they please.
At least when we fought I knew you cared enough to reply to me,
now I’m not sure you care at all.
Because I’ve spent this last year trying to fix my relationships,
And they have all just seemed to fall apart.
I guess I fucked up.
Texting you was a mistake.
I might as well have been drunk and naked in the street.
Getting hit by a car would’ve hurt less than what you said.
But to you it’s all the same,
you read it as a sappy “miss you” text.
A feeling of sad nostalgia.
When really, I was spitting snot through my tearducts, sobbing in the streetlights while speeding on the highway.
And in my head all I kept thinking was “when you feel like running, run straight to me”.
But you weren’t there,
Your warm cookie cutter words were not there to dip in milk and soothe me,
I couldn’t be swaddled by a blanket or wrapped up in your arms
instead of my insecurities.
I am so sorry,
I am so fucking sorry.
If you’re going to call me your soulmate,
do so with harsh brilliance like sunlight after a morning hangover.
do not be meek and gentle with it,
tell me with passion until I believe it.
Tell me like vows on a wedding night,
like the first time you told me you loved me.
Don’t hand it to me like a free sample,
or a business card.
I am not a one night stand,
and saying that to me without any meaning
is fucked up.
If you think things were worse than minor with us,
I hope to god you get hurt as bad as me before winter comes.
I would never wish bad things upon you,
but I think the only saving grace for us,
is to dismantle you.
So rip off your skin,
shed your pages, darling.
Feel what it’s like to look at your tendons and wanting to cut them from your body,
losing control of your feelings.
Crack your back, let the sour smell of nitrogen gas float you to the ceiling,
feel your stomach bounce inside your ribcage
as you drop to the floor.
These bruises are the only proof I have that
you still bleed for me.
hurting actually helps things.
I wish you hadn’t responded.
I wouldn’t feel so inclined to move on.
Why’d you have to choose that moment to be “adult” about it?
Why did you assume I was fine?
Did I sound fine?
is everything ok, honey?
I miss you too, I miss all of that.
I want to fix things.
would’ve all been acceptable answers.
But you had to be original.
You had to grow up,
you had to change.
Learn to cry about it.
Learn to hate yourself for it.
Learn to hate me for it.
Learn to accept an apology.
Learn to be alone and lonely.
Now say it with me.
I am so sorry.
I am so fucking sorry.
Now please, come home and forgive me.
“Things You Can Do to Start Fixing Things” -Katie Crow