the origin of languages

Hey guys!!!

my girlfriends all have sad eyes and beautiful hands. they have all been through it. we are all gorgeous, broken creatures. they have words of wisdom: do not love anyone who does not make you a priority. you deserve someone who will be honest with you. do not ever let him make you feel like you are not worth it. and, of course -  fuck him, that fucking asshole, he ain't shit. i nod and i cry and i let them hold me in the way i wish he did. brave girls are we. yes. brave girls are never the lucky ones.

here is the thing about us: i can see you disappearing right in front of my eyes, and i am trying so hard just to keep your ghost alive. and if that's not love, then i don't know what is. i want to know what it is that broke us. is it me or is it you? but i am learning that sometimes there are no right answers. you have your truth and i have mine. they are both real. but they are not the same.

'whoever cares less in the relationship has more power.' you say. you say. 'i don't ever want to lie about commitment.' i wonder what you do lie about. i wonder if i'm one of those lies. are you ever just honest to yourself? do you ever let someone else wield power? i've been sitting here writing about you. i haven't cried once. good girl. does that say more about me or you? i want to see you. i want to be looking in your eyes when you break me. i don't know if i wish you would've lied. all i know is that the truth makes me want to tear something out of you. i guess i could forget about you. i've done this many times before to other men. i have become a forgetful creature. it starts with hating you, of course. i have been alone for years. gaps in my memory. whole chunks redacted. i make up what i need to to make myself feel better. i wait for you to lure me in. i would let you if you tried. i'm hoping that you will. but my spotty memory is proof that you probably won't. 'you're still only a girl', 'you're young', 'you have plenty of time', so why is it i feel so fucking old. i feel as if i have been waiting for you since the crusades. since persecution. since the establishment of b.c. another man. another year. bad girl.

every man i’ve ever loved have came crawling back. i'm not sure what that means.

the heart is like a house. it is that time of the year; it’s summer, it’s time for inventory. i take stock of what’s been taken, and more importantly, what’s been left behind. i have decided to downsize my wardrobe - after all, the slinky white dress is gone along with the long red jumpsuit, the stack of pointed-toe pumps. the vanity needs to be replaced as well, dozens of red lipsticks (smeared), two bottles of perfumes (spilled), a new tube of mascara left open (spoiled). the bedroom has been ransacked. the sunroom upturned. and the kitchen - nothing but empty bottles. the study is untouched. you left without a word. i sat down to write some: 'i think i’ll miss you,' 'i want us to stay,' and 'i wish we were honest to ourselves.' but instead, i’m making a list for new furniture. i tell myself: it is that time of the year; it’s summer, it’s time to redecorate.

i know the way the heart works. there’s four chambers and a valve. the heart is shaped like a house. i used to leave keys for strangers. it’s warm inside. you look cold. and i’m lonely. the robbing should come as no surprise. mostly household items. a bottle of perfume i’ll never be able to wear again. a song ripped off a record. the back of a pair of earrings. but i still feel the absence like a phantom grip. i woke up today with you in bed. and how you looked at me scared me. it wasn’t because i knew that the room would be cleaned out by the time we were done. it’s just that - i don’t remember giving you a key.

your love is like a house. four walls,  and a door. i am standing on the 'welcome' mat, waiting to be let in. i am ringing bells, knocking wood. i know that you had written somebody else's name on the deed, but they have a place of their own. you are here. and you are all alone. i still think about you often. the look in your eyes. the lights are on, but nobody's home. pick the lock. break a window. trip the alarm. after a while, i know better than to ask for a key.

here’s the thing about love: you spend a night with a boy. he wakes up, “you’re nice, i think we should see each other again”, his smile is too sweet, you wonder if it could rot your bones. you leave, (he lets you), you don’t need a boy telling you what you already know and you don’t care what he thinks. your clothes smell like snow and ash and not much else. here’s the other thing about love: you spend a night with a boy. you wake up and hand him his shoes, “it’s cold out, maybe you should stay” his hands are too steady, you wonder if he’s ever been swayed. he leaves, (you let him), you can’t need a boy who knows too much and cares too little your clothes smell like cologne and leather and it all weighs heavy. here's the final thing about love: one day you wake up, in a bed, with some boy, and you realize nothing they say will make you happy.

i saw you for the first time in years and its like: i want to be that person that looks at you,  and smiles, and lies, 'i'm fine' 'you look well' 'things are good' and i could've done those things, it's just that: i won't. i won't say things i no longer wish were true, i won't allow for the illusion of comforts that are not there, and i sure as hell won't do for you what you never did for me. i used to be very sad. then very mad. and finally just glad. i'm a stronger girl now, which, for you, i guess, is just too bad.

i don't think we have been very fair to each other. i tell you too much and you tell me, well, not much at all. i used to think it was comforting, but now i find it stifling. i think maybe you are ready to grow out of me, and grow into yourself (you think you like who you're going to grow into). i think i have been ready for a long time, and i've grown too, (i think i like who i was better). i have been sitting in this darkness - wilting. i felt angry at first. then, tired. and now, i just feel very, very old.

i am not the girl you want to love.

what girls like me are made of: