#feminime

There's something so horrifying and putrid about my femininity. Every time I lean into it, I become a God. I can't just be pretty, I want to fuck, destroy, possess, be the centre of attention, be the best.

I want to cut others down with my tongue, persuade with my breasts, and lather myself in blood to soften my skin. I want to take a knife and pull myself apart at the seams, like a cheap pair of stockings yanking each vein out like a loose thread.

I've never understood how to be feminine, every attempt I make is monstrous, bitter, putrid.

I am holding a lighter up to the wax of myself trying to reshape myself into something pretty and quaint. Instead I am just fleshy and pink, writhing and seething.

The vision that I had of him was a product of my loneliness.

!warnings! obsessive behaviour

I was lonely.

I had no one. I guess that's the definition of lonely.

When I saw him,

he was the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

He was funny,

caring,

an extrovert,

understanding.

I followed him like a lost puppy,

acting like a pet who would always be there for him.

I don't think he knows.

I hope he doesn't.

He treated me like he did everyone else.

I acted as though he were my king,

and I was a servant who wasn't even assigned to him.

He plays the guitar.

I wonder if he'd play a song just for me.

He has friends,

I wonder if we could be close like that.

He likes this one murder show,

I watched it just so we could have something in common,

even though the ending was very predictable.

I tried to remember his zodiac,

to see if his'll match with mine.

I don't even believe in that crap,

but I changed those beliefs for him.

Until I found out we would be bad as a couple,

so I threw the whole belief away again.

He has inside jokes,

I act like I know them,

just so I can feel better about my lonely self.

While he's thriving in his job in the real world,

I'm at home,

writing meaningless poetry that couldn't even be considered as poetry, that no one would ever want to read, while listening to romantic playlists consisting of Dustin O'Halloran and Gustav Mahler that I would never get to experience with him.

I was in love.

I fell in love with the way he looked first, the way he smiles

then I fell for the way he laughed,

then how he talks to people,

then his jokes,

then I fell in love with his kindness,

after that, I fell in love with his life, with the stories he'd tell us.

Even after he got a terrible haircut 3 weeks later,

it still felt as if there was a small roller coaster in my chest when I saw him.

I knew I was screwed then.

Even when he got another terrible haircut that left him almost bald, I was still in love.

Scratch that,

I wasn't in love,

I was obsessed.