It’s Not You

September 26, 2015


I wanted that too. Not holding my breath though. I hold my breath for no one. My tongue is the same.

Oh honey, no.


It’s not you.

Its me.

I have horrible taste in men.

26 years of anecdotal proof and a blog dedicated to this very thing.

Things fall apart, it’s alright.

Please don’t think this is about you, don’t you don’t you…

He has been reminiscent of clouds in my coffee.

Lack of movement blending eventually to just coffee flavored coffee.

It went cold on me.

An object in motion has to stay in motion, or it stagnates.

Effort + Patience (has to) = Reward.

Otherwise what is the point?

I am getting tired of effort + patience equalling nothing.

I am also little bit sick of these women running around saying “I am goddess hear me roar blah blah he doesn’t know my worth”.

Goddesses don’t say that. Ever. THEY ARE GODDESSES.

Shaddup. Please. You are hurting my ears. If you knew your worth you wouldn’t be posting and posturing and pontificating. You would be relaxing, enjoying this one step closer to Nirvana you found and empowering others to come with you, patient with their journeys. Just little quiet smiles and nudges.

What you are doing is what I have dubbed ‘false positive’. You think you are enlightened but really, the enlightened know the learning process never ends. Just flow with it.

You have no idea what you are worth.

I don’t either.

I don’t think anyone does.

Oh, I have days wherein I wish for just the briefest of moments I could pluck out my eyes and show my darlings what I see when I look at them.
And I have just as many days where I wish just for a fleeting second I could see me how others see me.

Everyone doubts themselves except children and fools.
I forgot sociopaths, I think they are comfortable in their skin, or vests with tits or whatever Buffalo Bill.

I doubt him and I doubted myself.

One fed the other.

Yes, he was worth something to me. Being near him felt good. Being swept away under some rug from Ikea felt bad.

I am over it.
Yes I know I am writing about it. I only write about things I have processed.
I have endured torture by my own hand, evisceration by another, hauntings and guttings with less finesse than a fish caught on a line.  Abandonment and betrayal on monumental levels. Tearing, hacking, ripping, burning.

I saw him two times in two months. The sex was great he was lovely. I don’t need my thumb to count the times we have spoken since, just the fingers on that hand. It’s really alright.

Please understand I need to be left the fuck alone, sometimes for days on end. I have my chosen family and I participate actively in my friendships with them. I wake up and write at odd times. I work strange days and I have grown so accustomed to being alone, I really like it here. I can’t play hermit anymore. I have to be out in the world and out of my head. That is where you come in.

But…I don’t want to be left alone for months, nor weeks.
Nay fucking nay.
Days…days is my comfort zone.
Days I like.
I get that exhilaration when we do touch base.
And I get the luxury of alone.

Win win.

Its not about being worth something, its simple acknowledgement and effort. “Yes, you exist and I like that shit”.

My soul-sister and I finally live in the same city and its bliss.

That is another thing I don’t like. Emily Bronte. “Whatever souls are made of his and mine are the same.”

Uck, no. blech. I don’t want that. I’ll stick to fucking my tribe, but not my twin. Too close and incestuous.
Outside of my tribe feels like alien probing. Cold sterile and just weird.

I thrive on juxtaposition. I have accepted the pendulum swinging as it will.

No no. Not same. Compatible. Huge difference.

Whatever souls are made of HERS and mine are the same. I see her and I come home, over and over. I have that with another being. She is my warm safe place and I am content.

My needs are already being met. Now This is worth something, something huge.

This is the difference between need and want.

It’s paramount.

There is nothing about him that I need. So much want.

I am already happy over here, with or without him.

He gets to decide whether he finds this liberating or terrifying.

Either way, I am over here being happy.

Contemplating the curl of his mouth, the crook of his arm, the sound of him growling, bags of frozen peas strategically placed and how good he feels.

All want, no need.



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