Covered with scars I did nothing to earn
Thank you, Phil.
Thank you for imbuing me with this fear that any guy who is interested in me is only interested in some image, some illusion of the perfect woman, and that once he spends a lot of time with me he'll see what you saw--nothing of value, just unjustified and humorless quirks.
Yes, I'm talented.
Yes, I'm beautiful.
Yes, I'm sweet.
But what about me? What about the fact that I leave everything in a state of disorder EXCEPT my books and movies? What about the fact that I adore calenders? What about the fact that I buy books in bulk and it sometimes takes me months to read them all? What about the fact that I hated the LotR books the first time I heard them? What about the fact that cutting my hair off wasn't a declaration of independence, but that I did it because I knew he liked short hair on girls? What about the fact that I hate literary theory? What about the fact that Maleficent is my favorite villain of all time? What about the fact that I've only kept a few friends from high school? What about the fact that I only have a few real friends in college? What about the fact that I believe that everyone has a reason for behaving the way they do and that everyone requires some measure of understanding and leniency?
Are all those things unjustified and humorless? Are all those things really so consequential that they add up to become one massive quirky deal-breaker? You didn't even know most of those things, I'm sure. What did you know? Almost nothing, I suppose. Because you never asked. After a few weeks, we stopped talking about these things. You played video games. I watched.
And now, almost a month later, a boy wants to take me for ice cream. He wants to watch a movie with me at his place. He wants to dance with me on his back porch...and I don't think I can do it, because I'm afraid that he's only interested in the idea of me, the idea of the beautiful, talented, kindhearted girl. I'm sitting here, reminding myself that I am only the image of what men want, through no fault of my own. I don't pretend, I don't try to be something I'm not; but I'm still perceived as something else and I don't know what to do.
So thanks for that legacy, Phil.
Thank you for imbuing me with this fear that any guy who is interested in me is only interested in some image, some illusion of the perfect woman, and that once he spends a lot of time with me he'll see what you saw--nothing of value, just unjustified and humorless quirks.
Yes, I'm talented.
Yes, I'm beautiful.
Yes, I'm sweet.
But what about me? What about the fact that I leave everything in a state of disorder EXCEPT my books and movies? What about the fact that I adore calenders? What about the fact that I buy books in bulk and it sometimes takes me months to read them all? What about the fact that I hated the LotR books the first time I heard them? What about the fact that cutting my hair off wasn't a declaration of independence, but that I did it because I knew he liked short hair on girls? What about the fact that I hate literary theory? What about the fact that Maleficent is my favorite villain of all time? What about the fact that I've only kept a few friends from high school? What about the fact that I only have a few real friends in college? What about the fact that I believe that everyone has a reason for behaving the way they do and that everyone requires some measure of understanding and leniency?
Are all those things unjustified and humorless? Are all those things really so consequential that they add up to become one massive quirky deal-breaker? You didn't even know most of those things, I'm sure. What did you know? Almost nothing, I suppose. Because you never asked. After a few weeks, we stopped talking about these things. You played video games. I watched.
And now, almost a month later, a boy wants to take me for ice cream. He wants to watch a movie with me at his place. He wants to dance with me on his back porch...and I don't think I can do it, because I'm afraid that he's only interested in the idea of me, the idea of the beautiful, talented, kindhearted girl. I'm sitting here, reminding myself that I am only the image of what men want, through no fault of my own. I don't pretend, I don't try to be something I'm not; but I'm still perceived as something else and I don't know what to do.
So thanks for that legacy, Phil.