I cried, daily.
I tried, hourly.
I cared and cared, so much that my chest was caving in with every breath.
I wondered, was that me?
Is this who I have become?
This weepy, weak, sensitive bundle of womanhood. Smiling and saying "I'm fine" to anyone who asked. Being "real" in this made-up fantasy where ladies do this or that.
I strung pearls and sang hymns, koom-by-ahh-Ing the shit out of my open heart.
But that sucked.
Being a lady and doing lady stuff is not fun for me. Koodo's to my women-folk who can pull off being a lady! Don't know how you do it. I actually really dig belching, it feels good and is way better then swallowing it and waiting with my knees crossed for privacy to fart.
I did it because I thought that's what I actually wanted.
I did it because I've wondered to myself if I have it in me, and what it might be like.
I did it because I thought "he" (whoever he is or was) wanted that, and maybe, just maybe, I could snag a happily ever after in woman-land.
Then, what happened, was I threw that in the f**k-it bucket.
I realized that's not who I am.
I'm sensitive, but not soft.
I'm loving, but not gooey.
I don't care about make-up or dresses. I could care less about romance novels and moon-lit serenades.
I don't want to be swept off my feet.
What I want is me.
Laughing, wearing yoga pants that make them stop in their tracks and go "damn"!
Being the one to say "aw muffin" and "suck it up buttercup". The one that has an annual cry-fest whether I need it or not. The one that people can say anything to, and I accept it because it isn't about me, and I get that. The one who is loyal like a dog and vicious like a sprung cougar.
The ice queen.
The bloody unicorn.
The water-logged siren with sharp teeth, mermaid tail, and the propensity to devour.
No sparkles and lipstick. Just ripped jeans and hoodies. No tears and I-love-you's. Just stone cold stares and the matter of fact I-do-you-know's.
And "him" (whoever he may be), isn't going to be some knight in shining armour soaring in to save the day on his noble steed.
Nah.
He's going to be that guy who knows that pulling my hair and grabbing my neck makes me purr.
He will know that what's under my hoodie is worth coming home to. He will know that my softness emerges just enough to love unconditionally, but I will shut that down the instant I feel threatened.
And that will be enough.
Until then, I'm going to get used to being alright with the fact that I'm not a lady, but I'm a power-house woman.
I'll wear a dress now and then, but not to make anyone else happy or to prove a point. I'll stop stringing pearls and admit surgical steel and silver make me happy. I might not live in an ice castle and run around singing about letting stuff go...but I will indeed embrace the comfortable chill of my icy exterior.
Because maybe it's not from "being broken"...maybe it's just my own kind of magic.
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