03/2015

Fragments from the journal: March 2015

I’m not a woman who wants to be watched, I’m a woman who needs to be seen.

I want to be fully in love and forever partnered like a penguin and it’s still the thing I want most in the world.

I know it’s partially because it’s what I’ve been indoctrinated to believe. I’m not an idiot.

But I also still believe in loving and honoring one person for the rest of my life. 

I’ve tried every kind of relationship, every kind of intimacy with people who likely couldn’t pick me out of a line up,just to see if maybe what I wanted was just silly, a romantic little girl fairy tale.

But nothing has ever felt right. It was always too complicated and stressful. It was always the opposite of what I wanted

Too much for my romantic brain to handle. 

The centrifugal rings of affectation built up and couldn’t be a part of any of it, anymore. 

I had too much hope, and hope can distract you from the truth. 

As the years passed and the distance grew between the woman I was the woman I am now,

I no longer need to shape-shift or try to fit a mold for attention, affection, or love. 

And in that growth there have been many revelations about vulnerability and intimacy that I’ve learned. For some, sex is intimacy, for others  merely companionship will do. I’ve realized intimacy, like anything else is a spectrum. 

And where you are on the spectrum largely depends on your life experience, your willingness to be seen, mistakes and all. Your ability to be open to change, and your patience with yourself and other people. 

The poem:

I’m not a woman who wants to be watched,  
a figure framed in the gallery of your gaze,  
exhibited like a painting—  
no, I’m a woman who needs to be seen,  
not merely observed,  
but understood in the marrow  
of my being,  
each crack and crevice  
a testament to the battles fought  
in silence.  

I long to be fully in love,  
forever partnered like a penguin,  
a steadfast companion  
in a world that spins chaotic,  
where the cold winds of expectation  
whistle through the emptiness,  
and still,  
it’s the thing I want most,  
the warmth of a shared heartbeat,  
a haven of two.  

I know it’s partially because  
it’s what I’ve been indoctrinated to believe,  
the fairy tales of childhood  
still whispering in the corners of my mind.  
But I’m no fool,  
I see the cracks in the glass,  
the fractures of a dream  
that feels so distant,  
yet still, I cling to the hope  
of loving and honoring  
one person for the rest of my days.  

I’ve tried every kind of relationship,  
every form of intimacy with nameless faces,  
each encounter a futile experiment,  
testing the waters of connection,  
but nothing ever felt right,  
always too complicated,  
like a puzzle with missing pieces,  
a riddle that eludes my grasp,  
too much for my romantic brain to handle.  

The centrifugal rings of affectation  
spun tight around my heart,  
and I could no longer bear  
the weight of pretense,  
the masks that choked  
the essence of who I was.  
I had too much hope,  
and hope can distract you  
from the truth lurking beneath,  
the raw, unvarnished reality  
of longing and loss.  

As the years passed,  
the distance grew between  
the woman I was and the woman I am now,  
and with it came the shedding  
of scales,  
the letting go of shapes  
that no longer fit.  
I no longer need to shape-shift,  
to contort myself into forms  
for attention, affection, or love,  
for in this growth  
have come revelations,  
like light breaking through clouds.  

I’ve learned that for some,  
sex is intimacy,  
the brief spark of flesh on flesh,  
for others, merely companionship will do,  
a warm hand to hold,  
a quiet presence beside.  
Intimacy, I now see,  
is a spectrum,  
a fluid dance of connection,  
where you stand depends on  
your life’s journey,  
your willingness to be seen—  
mistakes and all—  
your capacity to embrace change,  
and the patience you cultivate  
for yourself and others.  

So here I stand,  
not a woman to be watched,  
but a woman who demands to be seen,  
a wildflower breaking through  
the cracks in concrete,  
yearning for the sun,  
for the love that recognizes  
the beauty in the imperfect,  
the strength in vulnerability,  
as I reach for the sky,  
unapologetically me.