I’ve been snapped out of the void before
Endless relenting overthinking never did me any good
But with ego
I stubbornly persist

On an overground tram
Heading back from a casual birthday party
Casual by default since her mum insisted
On jack in the box games and a caterpillar cake at nineteen

I told her all about the online echo chamber
For my newfound identity
For which she held the same
Did she have these same experiences
These strangers liked to insist?

I will never forget how she so cool told me no
And like a slap in the face I was reminded
Of the futility of my own overthinking.
There didn’t need to be some grand explanation
For my cosmic being in the universe
I just had to exist

I am done being measured by being without a man. I am so done with dating. I am getting to a point where - remembering their information?
Darling, show me you're here to stay first.
I am done remembering facts and whole pageturner conversations.
Effort?
I might put it in when I feel like it.

Dating is horrid. Spend weeks apping and talking and sharing and caring only to part after what, date two? Three?
No, I am done.

But yes, that is the paradox. I want love.
I want THAT adventure too.
But I am done begging god for love or for fate to find me a person.

I AM DONE BEING BUILT UP, WRECKED AND HAVING TO REBUILD AFTER SOME OX DECIDES TO TRY WITH ME. I am DONE with indecision. With coldness, with superiority, with children, with babies on the side, with leftovers.

Because that is what these men have tasted like to me. Leftovers.
And I am a ******* snack, a meal at a Michellin restaurant. A ******* well-rounded, thought through, social, creative and sportive prize.

So who the **** are you to bring me down.

One more swipe.
One more swipe across one more greasy face.
My finger slips, skips down the page.
My finger pauses at your gaze.
The taste of your smile as it wonders through
my maze.

Sometimes I think of selling pictures of my feet online
Then
I immediately think of the state of my feet;
The state of me.
After conforming to your dress code of black dress shoes and shattered dreams For 11 long years.
For 11 long years
I sat in rows of grey white and black
Perfectly poised in the presence of our educators
Our guardians
Our wardens.
If we deigned to relax,
Laugh,
Breathe,
They would find more to give and give and give
Until we became nothing but frayed nerves
And therapy bills
That should be addressed to our parents
And then I think
I can’t sell pictures of my feet online,
How could I correctly value them
If I don’t correctly value myself?