I want to be the
woman men fall hopelessly in love with.
And, in a way, I know that I already am.
I see the way they look at me. I
listen to their constant appraisal of me as the “perfect woman”. They tell me how lucky the man I end up
loving will be, but that they also know I won’t love anyone. They tell me that’s the best part. “I need you because you don’t need me”. They tell me how amazing I am, how complex
and versatile I am. They can’t figure me
out. I’m like “a dude with tits and an
a*s”. I’m low maintenance. I don’t need them to be faithful to me. I just need them to give me pleasure. Other women call me a s**t because my sex drive is higher than most of
theirs. I crave physical contact. It gives me peace. I need nothing but kisses and
drugs. I don’t need love. Love ruins love-making. It engulfs your brain. You spend all the time you normally spend
doing what you naturally do well, trying to impress the other person. You think about every little action, what
will they think of this? Do they enjoy what I’m doing now? You want to make them happy. I don’t like love, I think. I don’t like the upkeep. It’s stressful. I want to be happy.
I want to be all
the things that I already am. I cannot
see them in myself because mirrors are not an accurate representation of
matter. We can never truly see ourselves
as we are. We see our reflection, an
inflection of others in ourselves. We will
never be satisfied, but we can be sated.
I don’t want to live my life sated, sedated, by the corruption in this
world. I want to live, to experience
everything I can. Everything I am. I am young and I want to act young. I want to love more than one man. I don’t want to be confined at such a young
age. I deserve to experience, to thrive,
something I can’t do if I am static. I
refuse to remain static to appease the people.
I refuse to make others happy at the consequence of my vitality.
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