I am notably different from the average girl
So much so that you fail
to notice
Yet I stand out in a room of many painted faces
With neither a
heave, nor a holler from deep within
Find me if you can

who am i but woman

who am i but i woman? trapped by a big heart with butterfly stitches. i watch others, most like myself, fall into the daze of painted love. eyes growing wider with each gesture that he, she, someone, anyone, may love her more; love her better. i observe "us" step halfheartedly and forcefully into relationships that we could have been ready for, if not for the ones "before" that injured the soft, delicate space between or breasts. So we laugh to keep from crying, and lust- too afraid to love. we fawn intimacy, fearing that if we get too close, we've made some metaphysical mistake. We've somehow learned to detach ourselves from our feelings. We hide them under expensive make ups and false lashes. then subsequently lash out at "them" for allegedly not being "real" with us. see the oxymoron? of course not. for we've trained our own eyes to see only what we want them to see. so even if he cheats, we convince ourselves that he still loves us. even if he's faithful, we convince ourselves that he's not. where do we break even? is there a space for honesty? for trust? for the disassembling of the idea of emotional numbness? i, personally, prefer to feel what's real. all the hurt, all the real love, the doubt, the insecurities, the kisses and the "him actually showing up" that speak louder than any words he could ever say. the stroke of the cheek and the "I'm not perfect...I won't always pick my socks up off of the floor, but I'll always be there..." that make me feel like everything that I've been through is all worth it. because had it not been for the losers before, I wouldn't be "winning," so to speak. and whether it comes now, or if it comes later, we should prefer to know who we are; Woman.

(image my be subject to copyright)