You ruined 2am for me. You woke up at 2am to tuck me back in when I kicked the sheets off. You got out of bed at 2am to get me a glass of water because my voice sounded parched. You stayed up till 2am talking to me about the universe and you couldn’t fucking stop and realise you were my universe. I tried to go to the bathroom at 2am and you held on tighter and asked why I was getting up. I pushed you to the edge of the bed at 2am and you woke up to kiss me not fight. Everything at 2am felt better with you. You loved me with all you had at 2am and when the sun came up you decided that that wasn’t love.
I ruin everything to make us even. I read through your messages while you sleep looking for the worst side of you. I respond to every compliment with sarcasm and eye rolls. I refuse any declaration of love because I am determined to reveal the wolf beneath your skin. When I find the man beneath all this, I sink my dagger in. You will never know the extent to which I love you. But you do, if I didn’t care about you I wouldn’t focus so much on ruining you (twisted, I know) When you give in to vulnerability you admit to the pain you bear with my distance. And at 2am I will be vulnerable too, I will reach out for you and draw you in, just so I can remind you how you ruin everything.
If you’re reading this, I am sorry. I was never for you and you were never for me even though it felt that way. The fact that we always broke each other is testament to that. You deserve better, as do I.
Dear Mr 83 mutual friends,
I don’t know you even though Facebook insists that I do. But I will not hesitate to say you have a face of someone I could fall in love with. It’s not just the suit, even though I have an unfair weakness for a man in one. It’s also the ease with which I can pronounce your name, 3 syllables, fit for me to take on. It’s also the way yours is the first face I see every morning when I check my social media notifications, is it fate or is Facebook keen on making us acquainted. From the little I could see from my brief investigation of your profile, you have a firm grasp of English and I have fallen for men with less. Your obvious obsession with sports will be forgiven, because I have an obsession of my own: dogs! We would look great together on Instagram and from what I’ve heard, those are relationship goals. Before I go, I’d like to add that I melted when I saw a picture of your mother you recently uploaded on your page. A man that cherishes his mother is surely a keeper. I hope to send you a friend request one day or vice versa.
Sincerely yours, Ms 83 mutual friends.
“i am mine.
before i am ever anyone else’s.”
― Nayyirah Waheed
“Mine” – tattooed on my right wrist is this declaration. I see it with every action my dominant hand takes. The meaning is lost on so many who see it. “Why would you need to remind yourself of something so basic.” – they ask, with the heavy condescension that I am not yet immune to. Trying to explain myself seems futile. How can they understand that I never felt like mine for so long. I longed to be “his” “yours” “theirs” I was forever giving myself away that I forgot to be mine. The desecration of this temple went like this.
There was Mr Grey. The first person to pay attention to me was granted access to my heart even when he openly declared that the next one wouldn’t love me either so there was no difference. I failed to see that I was always capable of the thing they couldn’t give me.
Then there was Mr Black. He was the personification of my self hate. He called me bitch and pulled my hair even when he never fucked me. He was the least deserving of my being but he was a reflection of how much I could hate myself.
And to my rescue was Mr Green. He was the most like me, so it came as no surprise when I discovered that he too, was lacking in self love. We were on the same journey but we couldn’t take it together. Good intentions weren’t enough to save us from ruining each other.
The direct opposite of Mr Green was Mr Red. He was an embodiment of the world. All I sought to be was a version that would impress him. But I always fell short of this standard. He felt better about himself by putting me down and yet I still believed he was capable of more.
Mr Brown was supposed to be the one. But that one expectation created a million more. People aren’t supposed to be what we expect of them and vice versa. I was too busy trying to mold him that I forgot to mold myself.
And now, there is me! Plato said “At the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.” What he left out was this, with the loss of love, everyone finds a divine entity. Finding yourself after this loss, is that divine entity.
I remain a goddess even when no man worships at my altar.
“What is your type?” – We have been conditioned to reduce ourselves to a category in order for someone else to want us. They say if I want love, I must find a man who prefers “Bbw” but Groucho Max said “Please accept my resignation. I don’t care to belong to any club that will have me as a member.”
Consider this my resignation!
Fuck you for attaching this label to me even though I didn’t ask for it. For the objectification attached to this label which means you don’t see me beyond the sexual. Fuck you for expecting me to fuck you because you called me beautiful simply because you think I should be grateful that I’m being hit on. I know my worth and I don’t need your shallow opinion. Fuck you to the guy that told me that big breasts don’t matter if you’re “fat” I happen to think my big tits are fucking gorgeous! And then there’s the assholes that’ll like you but can’t admit it because it’s taboo to like a big girl, Fuck you for not having the balls to openly admit you like something. You don’t deserve a prize for fucking or loving a bigger woman.
I’m angry and I have every right to be. I am intelligent, witty and hilarious. And that just describes 5% of who I am. I am more than my size!
“But you are gazing at me the way God gazed at Adam and I am embarrassed by your look of love and possession and pride. I want to go now and cover myself with fig leaves. It’s a sin this not being ready, this not being up to it.”
– Jeanette Winterson, Written On The Body
“You sound like your mother.” – He said it to hurt me. He means the worst parts of her. A double edged insult, I can never be the best parts of my parents. I am somehow the worst halves of two amazing people.
“You drink like your father.” – My rebuttal is weak. His father doesn’t drink. But mine does. Freud was right to a degree, I am dating my father.
“You aren’t her.” – This should be a compliment but it isn’t. He loved her, he had a child with her. I’m the phase that comes after all the good times have passed.
“You aren’t him.” – This isn’t a compliment. It isn’t intended as one either. I am not with the person I love and I know this everytime we celebrate an anniversary.
“You are amazing.” – My insecurities see it as sarcasm. How could I ever be this unattainable concept that I am yet to fathom. But then again maybe it’s real and I am over thinking it like I usually do.
“I can’t do this.” – how I always end it. I am weary of this version of myself. It feels fake. I am searching for “real” yet another concept I am yet to attain.