WAITING FOR THE BUS IN THE RAIN IN THE RAIN
WAITING FOR THE BUS IN THE RAIN
WAITIN FOR THE BUS WHERE IS THE BUS THE BUS IS LATE
WHERE THE BUS COME WHERE THE BUS AT
OH GOODIE HERE THE BUS AW SHIT IT’S A DIFFERENT BUS
Tonight while watching the hockey, a Dove commercial came on that said “9 out of 10 women do not believe they’re beautiful” and SO was shocked beyond all belief. It took everything I had not to say “no fucking shit”. And when asked if I thought I was, I didn’t think about what I was saying, before responding “yeah, no. Not generally. If we’re talking physically. No.” and then had to explain how you shouldn’t be so fucking shocked about it when the one thing that all girls are taught from the get go, from our parents, from other women, from society, from the ones we love, from all the men in our lives, is “don’t you fucking even dare to think you’re beautiful unless we say you are, and even then you’re not allowed to believe it, much less admit that you might be”. To which I got the response “well holy political conversation! I think that’s really sad and i never ever think I’m not attractive so i don’t understand that at all. That makes no sense that you’d let someone tell you were anything but.”
I have to keep reminding myself that justifiable homicide is not actually a thing, just like the tooth fairy, and that blood stains are a BITCH to get out.
There’s so much I want to say tonight, but I can’t. My skin is stretched to the breaking point over bones that itch and ache and seethe with so many emotions, so many images of things and fears and angers.. I don’t know. I just don’t fucking know where my life is going. I want the life I thought we had, but know that we’re in the end game now, and the things I love now are not the things I will get to have in the aftermath. I shake as I consider other lives, other places I must learn to be. And really how very weary I am of romantic love and the toll it takes on me. I want to hide. To slip between the frothing waves where no one will see me, where no one will claim me, and I can drift alone in my aloneness. Is this normal as I stretch into middle aged? I’m scared. I’m scared that who I really am is not someone that can safely be with anyone, and yet still retain my own self-worth. I struggled to remember the magic, and ached to relive the tenderness. Those things are past me now, I think, and I find myself become resolute in the knowledge that no one will ever love me as much as I love them, and becoming more and more okay with it. Not in the settling for less love sense, but in the done with romantic love entirely sense. What is the romantic equivalent of asexual? Because I am there…
You are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing.