Dear Girls

Dear Girls,

You have to be perfect.

You can’t just be a good girl, because, gosh, that’s boring. You can’t be a bad girl either, because no one likes a bitch. So you know, be interesting… Be a JLaw! Well, kinda like JLaw. With more tact. There are some things you just can’t say because, duh, you’re a lady. So act like one! But not a prude, okay? Because that’s annoying. So be open. But not a slut. Not like Miley Cyrus. That’s a slut, not the type of wreck you should be. How shameful. In fact, you can’t be a wreck at any point in your life. Get it together. Always have it together! You have to be a strong girl. But not too strong; girls who come on strong aren’t very charming. You wanna be charming, because that’s a great plus for getting boys. Of course, you’d wanna get boys. You’d be with a boy, get married, and have kids, right? Because that’s what every girl wants. Well, the normal girls anyway. And oh, a successful career would be great, too, if you can manage it.

Basically, you just have to be perfectly imperfect—which really means BE PERFECT. Or you know, keep trying to be. I’m not saying it’s impossible, I’m just saying you’ll always be trying… Forever and ever trying. And if you feel like a failure, #sorrynotsorry, that’s not anyone’s fault but yours. So just try and try.

Love,
Society

It’s a Quarter After One…

…I’m all alone and I need you now.
— me to vodka

It was really 1:15 am when I started writing this. I did feel the need for vodka. I need it.

To silence these thoughts. These treacherous thoughts.

I do not want to play games.

Some things are just a matter of yes or no. Yes or no? The truth is: I don’t know… I just don’t know how I (should) feel. But I’m certain I don’t want these foolish, little, guessing games.

I want clarity. I want simplicity. I want honesty. I want you.

And I want vodka.

Very much.

Especially if I can’t have you.

Quote

Romanticism

In a way, I put all my romanticism into that one night, and I was never able to feel all this again. Like, somehow this night took things away from me and I expressed them to you, and you took them with you!

— Celine, Before Sunset

After thousands of sunsets, I will still remember.

I’ll remember the charming way you carried yourself, all muscles and yet no airs. The gentle way you held my face as we kissed, something so sweet I had never experience before. The zealous way you swayed with me, especially when that harmonica-driven dance-pop tune played.

Or maybe I won’t.

But I’ll definitely remember you. Tall, tender, thirty. I was young–too young to understand your reality, but old enough to know it was no fantasy. You were my fantasy.

Oh, I know it was real.

It all felt real: the phosphorescent signs, the unintelligible music, the stars so many light years away. I swear, on some quiet nights, I still see the stars we watched from our little world on that shore. Perhaps, I just cannot tell stars apart.

Note from the Night Before

I liked you. I did.
You were so smooth,
I only remembered you had rough hands
when I had read your words a seventh time.
Not to say I did not like it.
Your words tasted like dark chocolate,
melting into my bloodstream,
seizing my veins with these feelings.
Not to say I liked it.

You held my face
between your hands,
and when your stare grew heavy,
I hid my flushed cheeks in your embrace.
There was a thumping
I thought I had heard before,
the one that had been calling my name.
So I said,
“Yes.”

In a place I was a stranger to,
with movements stranger to daylight.
Your whispers made me think
I was in a world apart from you,
one I never wanted you to be part of.
In my head. Too much.
I wanted my clothes, I wanted to leave.
But then you said, after puffing and scribbling,
“I have to go.”

Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe we never met eyes,
maybe I was not brave,
maybe you did not like dancing.
Maybe I just dreamt it.
I read your words again.
For the hundred, thirty-third time:
“I’m sorry. You deserve better.
In another time, in another place.
Maybe.”

No, I Wasn’t

No, I wasn’t in love with you.
I just loved your body heat next to me.
Not quite a wool blanket,
But like the waft of morning coffee,
Setting my senses on fire.

No, I wasn’t in love with you.
I just loved you squinting in those glasses
With frames same as my own.
I always took off mine when with you.
I felt much more than I saw.

No, I wasn’t in love with you.
I just loved your bulky and shapeless limbs.
Too fragile for my touch,
But your arms could lift me tenderly,
‘Till in them I grew heavy.

No, I wasn’t in love with you.
I just loved that your mouth gave your face soul.
Oft curved, rarely open,
Subtly conveying fleeting feelings.
Like your heart, I imagined.