My lips swell, turning red from blood flow. I can feel my eyes glowing softly, saliva pooling in my mouth. Obedient and loyal, like a small dog, understanding it's status and stature. Waiting for instruction. But, he doesn't know I'm fickle, like a cat. Growing bored and disinterested in the time and energy it would require to stay still. I ignore messages, indulging instead, in what was left open to interpretation and imagination. Allowing the instinct to take over.
It's my birthday today. It also is Easter, I think. There is a lot of family and food. Everyone has made something to bring together. I am feeling impudent. My mother makes me feel I am under a microscope. I don't look her in the eyes after smiling and being joyful, met with questions about why I am not good enough. "That's not what I meant..." is just hanging in the air and I know, but she doesn't understand how she talks to me. How she doesn't understand how sensitive I am. She asks why I didn't make banana bread pudding, under the surface, the dish I provided wasn't good enough. "That's not what I meant..." I know. But, that is what is felt. Feeling the constant corrections, not being enough. That is what is felt. I stumble to say, "I would have gladly made it if I knew you would have been disappointed without it." Barely speaking correctly. I don't hold anyone's eyes. I stare ahead. At the empty place setting in front of me. There's no one next to me. No one across from me. It's a long table with settings and only one other person sits there. I know you are here for me. The other table is full. My children don't even sit with me. I excuse myself for the bathroom. I stare at my face in the mirror and wonder why I am the way I am. Why can't I just enjoy life without feeling like an outcast constantly. Why am I not allowed to thrive? I cannot even enjoy dinner with family without feeling like the black sheep. Easy pickings. I come back to the table and it is a picnic. We are all outside, it is sunny and bright. It is an outdoor bar, a brewery. The tables are filled with strangers, too. We talk and it is easy. We talk for hours, with the buzz of those around us. You get up and sit next to me. There are empty beer glasses plus the ones we are drinking. My sister has won a bet, one she suggested and you encouraged. She says we owe her 3oz each. I have 5 oz left and I offer her the rest. She takes it and then drinks it whole. She says, "I will go and get another glass." I consider buying her a whole beer to make up for the one ounce. I remember you have 4oz left. I watch you drink it all as I ask, "Why didn't you give her one ounce?" You say, "Oh, sorry," while placing the empty glass on the table. I watch the last drops of the glass pool at the bottom. Spit and beer mixing together with foam. I blink and turn my back. I walk away. I start walking up a hill. I am tired. So tired. I know when I get to the top, I'll be met with a gazebo, a view of the valley below. I see the white structure ahead. There's a boy and a girl playing. I respond to their engagement. They are very sweet, and I wonder how lucky their parents are to enjoy such wonderful children. The boy says he has to pee and I tell him to find a bush. If he gets any on himself, to let me know, I will walk back down and get a spare pair of clothes for him. I consider how any mother would do this for any stranger's child. To take care of them like anyone else would. Instinct to be helpful, because their world is so innocent and loving. They just want love in return. Generally, they haven't been exposed to the rotten cores of adults, yet. I walk down the hill and I wonder if you are still at the table. Everyone was leaving when we lost the bet. The one that I didn't want to play. I don't like betting. I like to know what will happen. I don't want you to be gone. I don't want you to be an asshole anymore, either. You didn't understand why I did or said anything. Because, you are the opposite of me. You wouldn't have said and done what I have. I think about calling you, seeing your face on my screen. But, then I remember, I only had your work number. You had let your other number die off. Or at least, until you realized I wouldn't contact you anymore. My heart hurts at it's core. It's hot and dusty on this hill. A car approaches from behind me and I move more off to the side. It's an older woman and she smiles at me. I feel slightly silly, being upset on such a beautiful day. When the beer has made my body feel so very muffled, I should be ignoring this bad feeling, instead I'm wallowing in it. The warm beer in my blood, the hot air floats my hair in a cloud around my scalp. I'm grateful for the day, but saddened by my broken heart. I see that a woman sent me a message. I read it. She wants to meet me and practice with me. I click her name, as she could be a number of people from class. I wonder how often this has happened where I have mistaken one woman for another because everyone is named "Sarah." I smile. There is a person who has sought out my company. I consider, she is just a kind person and maybe she wants to try to cheer me up. Maybe she doesn't know it's my birthday. Maybe she is just being nice because that is what she does- not because she knows anything about who I am. I smile anyway. I appreciate the gesture, even if it's not you asking to see me. I consider something I hadn't before. I think I am ready to let you go. I deserve more. I gave 5, you gave nothing. We were collectively short. Even when I gave everything I had.
I breathe in deeply. I see the street light glowing yellow behind my blue curtains. I feel that sensation. The one where I feel melancholy. I will need a lot of time to process this discontentment. Letting go of the possibilities. Because, I understand, it is not me waiting for you. Silence is an answer. A hard pill to swallow, but the best medicine I can give myself. I have no energy for you anymore. It hasn't turned sour, just dissipated. Respect is earned, not given. Yours has been lost.
It's my birthday today. It also is Easter, I think. There is a lot of family and food. Everyone has made something to bring together. I am feeling impudent. My mother makes me feel I am under a microscope. I don't look her in the eyes after smiling and being joyful, met with questions about why I am not good enough. "That's not what I meant..." is just hanging in the air and I know, but she doesn't understand how she talks to me. How she doesn't understand how sensitive I am. She asks why I didn't make banana bread pudding, under the surface, the dish I provided wasn't good enough. "That's not what I meant..." I know. But, that is what is felt. Feeling the constant corrections, not being enough. That is what is felt. I stumble to say, "I would have gladly made it if I knew you would have been disappointed without it." Barely speaking correctly. I don't hold anyone's eyes. I stare ahead. At the empty place setting in front of me. There's no one next to me. No one across from me. It's a long table with settings and only one other person sits there. I know you are here for me. The other table is full. My children don't even sit with me. I excuse myself for the bathroom. I stare at my face in the mirror and wonder why I am the way I am. Why can't I just enjoy life without feeling like an outcast constantly. Why am I not allowed to thrive? I cannot even enjoy dinner with family without feeling like the black sheep. Easy pickings. I come back to the table and it is a picnic. We are all outside, it is sunny and bright. It is an outdoor bar, a brewery. The tables are filled with strangers, too. We talk and it is easy. We talk for hours, with the buzz of those around us. You get up and sit next to me. There are empty beer glasses plus the ones we are drinking. My sister has won a bet, one she suggested and you encouraged. She says we owe her 3oz each. I have 5 oz left and I offer her the rest. She takes it and then drinks it whole. She says, "I will go and get another glass." I consider buying her a whole beer to make up for the one ounce. I remember you have 4oz left. I watch you drink it all as I ask, "Why didn't you give her one ounce?" You say, "Oh, sorry," while placing the empty glass on the table. I watch the last drops of the glass pool at the bottom. Spit and beer mixing together with foam. I blink and turn my back. I walk away. I start walking up a hill. I am tired. So tired. I know when I get to the top, I'll be met with a gazebo, a view of the valley below. I see the white structure ahead. There's a boy and a girl playing. I respond to their engagement. They are very sweet, and I wonder how lucky their parents are to enjoy such wonderful children. The boy says he has to pee and I tell him to find a bush. If he gets any on himself, to let me know, I will walk back down and get a spare pair of clothes for him. I consider how any mother would do this for any stranger's child. To take care of them like anyone else would. Instinct to be helpful, because their world is so innocent and loving. They just want love in return. Generally, they haven't been exposed to the rotten cores of adults, yet. I walk down the hill and I wonder if you are still at the table. Everyone was leaving when we lost the bet. The one that I didn't want to play. I don't like betting. I like to know what will happen. I don't want you to be gone. I don't want you to be an asshole anymore, either. You didn't understand why I did or said anything. Because, you are the opposite of me. You wouldn't have said and done what I have. I think about calling you, seeing your face on my screen. But, then I remember, I only had your work number. You had let your other number die off. Or at least, until you realized I wouldn't contact you anymore. My heart hurts at it's core. It's hot and dusty on this hill. A car approaches from behind me and I move more off to the side. It's an older woman and she smiles at me. I feel slightly silly, being upset on such a beautiful day. When the beer has made my body feel so very muffled, I should be ignoring this bad feeling, instead I'm wallowing in it. The warm beer in my blood, the hot air floats my hair in a cloud around my scalp. I'm grateful for the day, but saddened by my broken heart. I see that a woman sent me a message. I read it. She wants to meet me and practice with me. I click her name, as she could be a number of people from class. I wonder how often this has happened where I have mistaken one woman for another because everyone is named "Sarah." I smile. There is a person who has sought out my company. I consider, she is just a kind person and maybe she wants to try to cheer me up. Maybe she doesn't know it's my birthday. Maybe she is just being nice because that is what she does- not because she knows anything about who I am. I smile anyway. I appreciate the gesture, even if it's not you asking to see me. I consider something I hadn't before. I think I am ready to let you go. I deserve more. I gave 5, you gave nothing. We were collectively short. Even when I gave everything I had.
I breathe in deeply. I see the street light glowing yellow behind my blue curtains. I feel that sensation. The one where I feel melancholy. I will need a lot of time to process this discontentment. Letting go of the possibilities. Because, I understand, it is not me waiting for you. Silence is an answer. A hard pill to swallow, but the best medicine I can give myself. I have no energy for you anymore. It hasn't turned sour, just dissipated. Respect is earned, not given. Yours has been lost.
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