Some crap I've been writing and don't want to lose:
Let's pretend, for a moment, that I am what you're looking for. You could say it, think it true, and you could be right. But I am not the girl that men marry. I'm the girl that shows them abandon, and comfort. I can say just exactly what they want to hear, every time, spotless. I'll kiss and cook and quote until they find their center, locate what was lost, and go searching for what is still missing. I'm not the girl men marry. I'm the girl they think of as they sit down to coffee and the paper after mediocre morning sex on their fifth wedding anniversary. They think about my waist, my wildness, my willful certainty.
I don't want to be that girl anymore. I'm tired of being the perfect substitute. I'll do it. I've got that endearing energy, that sensual softness. I actually listen.
And before, that was enough. I didn't want connection, commitment. I didn't want to be KNOWN. But I'm older now. My miscalculations look like mistakes from here. And not the kind that lie quiet and benign. So how can I ask? How can I ask for more? No one shops for things that are already broken. And I know we all are. I know, I know.
But I wish it wasn't always like this. Men fall in love with my personality from afar. Boys fall in love with my body as it wraps around theirs. And in neither case do they ever see or know or understand. It takes a lifetime for that. And that's an endeavor that even I wouldn't request right now.
I know it takes time. I'm not really worried. Just wistful. Thoughtful. Hopeful.
There are no more "right words". No faces or colors or sounds or voices to give them name. I'm getting lost in them.
I hurt in places I can't point to.
I'm sad in ways I can't describe.
My body doesn't fit in my skin, not that its too big or too small--
It just doesn't sit like it should.
I know if I tried to escape, I'd have to run in, not out, look back, not forward. But I'm tired of looking back. I'm tired of analyzing, of holding on.
I'm so tired I can't sleep. I'm so jumpy I can't walk, so shaky I can't write,
I'm so lost, I know exactly where I am.
I wrote this a million years ago. Interesting how nothing changes, huh? :
You spend your entire life, all your time on other peoples issues, the other guys’ shit, because it is in no way connected to you(how safe), and then one day you wake up and realize that ALL their shit is YOURS, you are just exactly like them, except for now they’ve fixed their shit and you’re left with her zip-up hoodie, some pictures, a receipt, and this lumpy ache that changes places depending on how you sit but never really goes away. How is that fair?
You spend all your time trying not to get attached, thinking about their choices instead of their freckles, their problems instead of the way they play air drums when they listen to music. You spend all your time trying to make it easy for them to move on and forget about you because now they’re happy. Now they’re healthy and they can do whatever and go wherever and you taught them how to do that in style. You buy them baby clothes for the child that will replace you, you teach them to deal, so they don’t Need to talk through everything, you prep them and arm them and then watch them go, and watch them let go, and you’re still untangling your fingers from their shoelaces and trying to hold that safe, happy, coffee and perfume and spices and books and soap smell somewhere safe where you won’t forget where you put it.
Except for at the end of it you realize that you taught them what you already know, that you’ll always survive, you’ll always be ok, you’ll deal and handle, and you’ll let go. And you realize that the only real sadness is that you want them to need you like you need them, but are too embarrassed to ask, and too ashamed to look like that, so you act cool, because you are, and hope that maybe they’ll just tell you they love you, so you can know, know that they won’t forget, because the only real danger in the whole world is being forgotten.