How wonderful to be reminded of the beauty of womanhood. Whether it be in the shape of your own body in a new dress — the accentuation of your hips against the soft fabric. Or if it’s just sharing a laugh of recognition at the triviality of love — what he said or she said in the heat of passion and rage. Either way, we shared these moments together.
Sometimes, when you are alone, it’s easy to forget how you’ve fallen in love with being a woman. There is no reflection of your sister self to help you understand. But together, her and I, we don’t have to think. We just are. Women. In love with ourselves, frustrated and fascinated at how our bodies were made, with hills and valleys that are all at once similar and unique, reflecting on emotionality and thoughts. Women — some sort of magical and magnificent force when coupled together.
How wonderful to be reminded, in your company
What I wouldn’t give to disappear. To no longer be this version of myself. What I wouldn’t give to be the ripples in the soft tide along the grassy beach. The way their movements are gentle but constant. Constant only for so long, I suppose.
But these small waves don’t grow angry like the others. They keep level. I wish to be them, massaging and caressing the bodies of the ducks. Or even to be those peaceful ducks, floating as though possessed by magic, gliding across the water. Weightless.
I wish to escape from the rough edges of my mind and body. This thing that holds my soul is reversed. Fragile, soft, and breakable on the outside, but sharp and painful on the inside. I wish to escape this world that treats me so cruel. I never could figure out what I had done to deserve it.
Why was I not born water? Why was I not born the meticulous tree, or grass, or flower? Burn me and spread my ashes to the earth so I might be absorbed into its order.
Let me be love. Let me be beautiful earth that so many travel miles to adore. Let me be honored and preserved. Let me show that I am not one to be tampered with. Let all know.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give.
I am interested in those parts of the body less considered by others. The ones that are small but expressive: toes, fingers, lips, eyebrows — all able to tell different kinds of stories and feelings left adrift by the unobservant eye. Then, I am lured by those who notice, like me, the beauty in these unconventional wordsmiths. Drawing me in by reminding me of the tale I told with my toes, or the frustrations let known in my fingers. Or maybe of the time my nose crinkled and my lips pursed when he cleverly combatted the brush of my feet along his sensitive skin. And when he comes to me with some expressive eyebrows, hinting that these small stories I tell are worth watching for, I’ll let my eyes and lips say what words can’t do justice.
I’m in a perpetual search for sanctuary. Time and time again I am outcasted by those who superficially claim themselves to be companions, friends, family. As though trying to prove something to someone — to anyone but me. I swim through a school of fish determined to be birds. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe I really am the one that doesn’t fit in and I’m forcing myself into a person shaped hole when really I should just stop. Stop it all… even though I know that’s not the answer I so badly want it to be. I want it to be as easy as just stopping. But of course it isn’t.
Because instead of thinking of all the people who’d miss me when I’m gone. I think of all the people who’d wished they’d never done me wrong. We like to think of ourselves as valiant beings; our existence worthy of proving a point. Strangely enough no one teaches you the right way to do that is to be here. As far as I’m concerned, the world loves people after they cease to exist.
All that aside however. I’m not dead. I’m very much alive. Feeling real pain from real people. Behind the metaphors is a mind that can not put into words the loss. I let writing dress up my disasters so they can seem something of tragic beauty, passion, significance, out of pure desperation for them to be something other than another
Pathetic loss of everything.
I’m so tired of feeling lost. Tired of feeling like I don’t belong, like the way I exist is wrong.
I wonder if they know that they’ve dropped daggers in my soul. I wonder if they understand the way their words, not spoken to me, have changed me forever. I can’t stop stepping down the spiral staircase that I only hope will lead me to answers but, instead, takes me deeper into the pitch black echo of my mind. I hear their voices, whispering sweet nothings of sour lies to each other. I hear them asking questions that I have spent days, months, years, conjuring answers to…yet never give. Perhaps it’s all in my head — paranoid by my own imperfection. I can only hope that I am imagining it all, making myself the bitter bait for adolescent babble. Still something in my gut is gripping at the stale hello’s and glassy glares of the ghosts I once held close. The plea caught in my throat cries for nothing but connection.
Funny how, without saying a single word, we can destory worlds.
“I feel…I am drifting further from myself.” She said as she struggled to find the right words. How does one describe what is not there? She waited a moment, testing the tip of her tongue to see if the idea had made itself at home. “I feel. I feel. Blurry. Out of focus. Where there once was an image of a girl there is now just a hazy mist of colors that make up…someone I do not recognize.”
And suddenly there it was. Perhaps this is what a Ghost felt like when someone first gave it a name; contemplating its newfound tangibility in a world it does not fully exist in. This is what it was to be…an ellipses.
Nowadays, love can live without a face. We share words across countries while our bodies stay stangnant — not pressed face to face, heart to heart, skin to skin. I fall for the words on a screen before I get the chance to remember what it’s like to hear them vibrate against your lips. I swim through my memories trying to relive what it’s like to feel your warmth in space with mine. But I am trying to lay these feelings down like a filter to the photos of the past. The truth is, what if–
My breath catches at the thought of all the what ifs. The ones we are pretending not to exist. The ones that poison the positive with reality. The what ifs remind me that as of right now, I’m alone. Falling in love with my phone and the idea that it’s really you and you’re really here. But what if–