How can you believe that women are anything less than,
When your mother gave you a spine of fibreglass and a heart of malleable clay and pushed you to run a race that you didn’t train for. When she handed you an upside down version of reality and said: ‘forgive.’
When the women around you open their palms, their life-lines scarred by hungry people that have ripped them apart searching for redemption for a crime that has never been committed. They’ll arm you with their visions for a future where we can all breathe and say: ‘fight.’
When you, with a sense of self-worth that you wear proudly as a cloak, picture a younger self whose world has ground her down with insidious lies about her very essence. Say: ‘Women have the strength and depth of oceans.’
& The language teacher says: If you want a good lesson on how to ask questions, date somebody new for a few months.
Dating teaches you:
What are we doing here?
I don’t know where your insecurities end and where my silence begins.
Why am I still doing this?
One night with somebody is messy, true, and animalistic. It’s fucking terrible and does not exceed expectations. In it’s disappointment and it’s temporary state we find a breath of chaotic human reality.
How are we holding this up?
Dating knows hidden disgust.
Dating knows corners raked from brain tissue, clasping your hands together until your fingers turn pale and dead.
& The language teacher says: Reflexive pronouns. If you want to know true self loathing, cut off pieces of your perfect self to suit another.
My mind is a withering root, searching for a conversation thread to grab at
I’m shy in the way that your facts and figures do not dazzle me, I don’t always read the news so I’m sorry if I don’t know the word of the day
That I’m bored with the way that you talk
I grasp onto people who talk about change and things to come like a giant juicy fruit
But you, who pretends to realise that the world is rotting at its core
Without seeing that this core is you and I
And I’m tired
And I’m young
Youth is not the enemy but you make it feel like a loaded pistol
Pointed at your head yelling “DO YOU FEEL OLD YET MOTHERFUCKER”
“You’re only 22”…
And I don’t understand?
I understand that you twist fancy words into your vocabulary as if padding your social resumé with artificial sweeteners
We’re all just peacocks in an eternal mating season after all
I admit that I am self-serving alcohol driven trash but what’s your poison?
There’s no use acting high and mighty, sir
Step up to the bar and order.