It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained into her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.
1: Fed all of her friends almost every day for ten years without complaining.
2: Excelled in a traditionally masculine career, (yes, cookery as a profession is generally male-dominated) and in traditionally masculine hobbies (football), without compromising her femininity…
The thing about this is that sculptures like these in art history were for the male gaze. Photoshop a phone to it and suddenly she’s seen as vain and conceited. That’s why I’m 100% for selfie culture because apparently men can gawk at women but when we realize how beautiful we are we’re suddenly full of ourselves…
Girls don’t let anyone tell you loving yourself is vanity.
“You painted a naked woman because you enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and you called the painting “Vanity,” thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness you had depicted for you own pleasure.” ― John Berger, Ways of Seeing
I feel like this is relevant given the naked pictures that were recently leaked.
Today I’m wearing a nice dark shade of exhaustion under my eyes.
I asked my friend if she was having a good day today. All she replied with was this
She will cry. She will cry over you like there is no tomorrow, until her throat is raw and her hair a mess. Her screams will echo through the walls and there will be nothing beautiful about it.
She will tear out the pages of her diary that she dedicated to you and swear your name will never again appear on the crisp pages that are so important to her. But two days later the words won’t come and she’ll find herself scrawling your name over and over until the ink blurs and merges with her tears.
She will curse you and curse herself and curse the skies for everything and nothing. There will be days when the sun shines but all she will see is rain and clouds, and days when she won’t see anything at all.
And fuck. She will love you even though her heart is breaking because she gave you a part of herself that you refuse to return.
But know this, she will also learn to forget you, so when she walks by in two months time, laughing and smiling without a care in the world, you will wonder how she slipped through your fingers, and she won’t care.
Not one single bit.