I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.

We were unbreakable

.... till you lied

............... and broke my heart

Now from the same lips

Sorry is not enough

Falling is easy,
Especially when infatuated.
Infatuation causes a false sense of trust.
So you allow yourself to fall,
Thinking that someone of interest
Would catch you.

But they expect you to catch them.

And sooner or later,
The weight of each other is too much.

They weren't actually ready to care for someone else,
You cared too much.

You were a means to an end to them.
Whether it be you were good for their ego,
Or you were an ****** just waiting to happen,
You didn't actually matter.

Don't worry.
I get it.
I've been there, too.

Falling is easy.

But flying is harder.

Flying is a choice.
It is making the conscious decision to let go,
To jump that cliff.
It's having enough control not to tense up
Every muscle in your body,
And brace for the inevitable impact.

Here's a secret, though:
The impact isn't inevitable.

Because when you fly, you're carrying your own weight.
And when you feel yourself faltering, you have someone who is flying with you,
Who will make sure you don't hit the ground,
And you'll do the same for them.

Because you care so much,
And even though you know the pain of losing them would be mostly temporary,
You also know it would permanently damage parts of you.

But, surprise, surprise!
They feel the same way.

You're more than hormones and pheromones and all kinds of other types of moans.
You make them a better person,
By being their best friend and so much more.

And trust me,
Flying is harder than falling.
You have to weather through storm after storm,
And cloudy days,
And lightning and thunder,
And lots of rain.

But you can do it,
For yourself.
For them.
For both of you, together.

Because, I guess the whole point is:

Falling is infatuation.

Flying is love.

And while falling is easy,
Flying is much better.

here
i am
floating
not on a cloud
not carried by space dust
but floating on my own
caught in between
two sides:
i'm not happy and i'm not sad
i'm growing older but i want to stay young
i want to be foolish but wise
and soon i have to go
but i don't want to leave yet

is it so hard for time to slow down?

I used to think that blue eyes were pretentious. I used to think that everyone with blue eyes somehow thought they were better than plain old me, with brown eyes and brown hair.

Shallow, right?

And then I met you, and for some reason, blue eyes were much less pretentious, and blue became my favorite color. Blue felt like home when mine was breaking. Blue felt like home when I didn't have one.

Hopeless, right?

But I've always been shy, and when I went through a phase of questioning myself and who I was, I didn't dare risk reaching out to you, out of fear you wouldn't really care. I ended up in a lot of bad situations, all of which I survived. I have the scars to prove it.

Foolish, right?

And I guess, in a vulnerable state in which I was afraid to be alone, I made another bad decision, and this decision was, just like before, a person. He brought out the worst in me, and I him. I thought his blue eyes could be a nice home too. Not the same way yours were. The way a desperate person takes shelter in a storm. But he was the storm, and I was collateral damage. I guess I thought I could make a home out of shrapnel.

Naïve, right?

I used to believe in meant to be. I used to believe in destiny, and true love, and red strings of fate. I stopped believing in that, for awhile. I went on various dates, with men who were nice and friendly. But upon telling them I couldn't go on dates with them anymore, because I wasn't ready to be with anyone, in any capacity, they stopped talking to me. It was foolish of me to think I was more than a chance at getting laid to them.

Gross, right?

And then we started talking again. And honestly, I didn't trust you at first. I wanted to, but I was scared. But when we met in person again, for the first time in seven years, I, slowly, started to believe again. And when you weren't paying attention, I'd steal glances at you, and even though I'd written off blue eyes, seeing the noon-sky and golden-sun within your iris's was almost too much. I felt at home, once more. And whether that was platonic or not didn't really matter. Because when you hugged me goodbye after I asked, I realized I loved you. And maybe I'd never really stopped.

Romantic, right?

I used to think blue eyes were overrated. I used to think I wasn't meant to be with anyone. I used to not believe in true love. It's funny, because now we've been married since November. And now I can't imagine going a day without watching the smile on your lips touch your eyes. And now I can't imagine being with anyone else. And maybe fate isn't a thing. And maybe neither is destiny. And maybe there are no red strings of fate. But I know true love is real, because I love you more than I've loved anyone else, of any kind of love. And you're the person I'm going to love forever, the person I have loved forever.

But now I do believe that fate only brings us to do the things we would do anyway.

Because if I had to choose between fate and loving you, then I guess I don't have any guidance besides the blue of your eyes.

Corny, right?