Commitments ; Responsibilities

I went looking for answers to questions I never voiced. I found hurt that only lived in my memories. I remember vaguely reading and clinging to the idea that that every 7/10/14 years all our skin cells have shed. Started fresh, become new.

It means that one day my skin will have new memories of the words 'I love you' whispered against it. Unfortunately, my bones demand a seat at the table, a voice in the vote. They always have. Growing fast and long. They hold memories from growth to death. As quickly as 8 and 9 years old. I remember coaches, teachers, authority figures commenting on my height and composure. Old soul. Trauma response. If only I could give space for more of an explanation. Not this time, not this space.

I remember at 16 I wanted to be tall, and strong. Those both synonymous because I thought my father strong because he was tall. One time, I was 20, my sister voiced her disgust that I was dating tall brunette men. Which my father was. Which I wanted to be. I wanted to be tall and strong. I wanted to demand a room. I wanted the world to take notice before I had to open my mouth and demand it.

So I dated men who were tall and strong who demanded the room. Through their wit, or looks. Through their ability to make anyone laugh. Self deprecating. Loved, cherished, respected by others, not just my mind in my 20a. Tall but not so brunette also. The pride one had in me, that I've never found again. I cling to those memories, sorry I couldn't reciprocate.

I've never really belonged to another person. Not the way that feels right deep in those demanding bones. I can't fake it for more that a few liquored hours. I say that with no pride, no grit, no give. It's the truth I live with. Some fuel to feed the feelings I manufactured. I felt the spark only because I told myself it was there, not because it was.

I remember leaning into feelings with pure goodness when fueled. Taken advantaged of. I became a beacon for what other people needed from me, not what we could give each other.

I build my own spine out of bamboo every moment, and the moments in between, I forget left uncared for, bamboo splits and cracks, no longer solid and strong one cut and pounded into the ground to stabilize. Dry rot begins.

I don't need someone else to build me a backbone. Never had, never will. I just need a gentle nudge when I get caught staring too long at the coming storm. Thinking about the preparation rather than the ride.

The fucking ride. I remember the first time I let my horse have his head as I galloped along along the ridge of my parent's property, only slightly replicated on the dirt bike as I shifted gears up and pulled back with my wrist on the same path. I don't need a partner. But I want one.

Not for a child, nor a breadwinner. Not for marriage. Not for our friends nor family. I want a partner for me and them. Selfish, perhaps, or maybe because survival, and betterment, at its fullest is shared when you can meet the eyes of someone, or someones who understand the sentiment with few words, and all the feelings.

and would rather die