A Lesson On Loving

Step one. Peel your skin at it’s joins to expose the muscle and sinew, see that what is in me is a part of you. It’s nothing new. DaVinci had to creep into cellars cloaked in the dark to see what you’re looking at, to learn more than before. Being a bastard he was shunned from high society and esteemed schools, left to study for himself he achieved more than ever before through sheer willpower and curiosity and I bet those teachers would be crying into their pillows, teeth knawing at the side of their cheeks to feel the cold saliva seep through. You are the same as everyone else in your physicality and yet you have the ability to think of things never before imagined. You are entirely yourself, inside your mind on a whole other level of awareness you can THINK of things. I can’t tangibly imagine what a thought feels like, tastes like, looks like. Maybe it tastes as though you licked a battery, when you were three and your dad watched with crinkly eyes as you followed instructions. Zing.
Step one is to remember your own ability, to become aware of what you can achieve if you stop giving excuses and just be.

Step two. When somebody takes you for granted as though you will always be there, nothing but an accessory to the murder of your own personality, leave them. When boys flail you as though you were ribbon to fly in the wind, and buy at one pound a meter. Leave them be. Leave them with your middle finger in the air facing behind you as you stride, heels hitting the pavement like ice picks. This option also works well for men catcalling from cars. It isn’t ladylike. You are not ladylike, you are you. You are not even a little bit like you, you are exquisitely, irrevocably you. You who can break a man with your eyes and they will all crumble, burn, if they deserve it. The you whos teeth are filed sharp for picking the seams from things, for crunching at the wings of fledgling bad things.

Step three. Breathe through your nose and write about the coffee you drank which makes you far too alive to think and your hands touch your face as though it were foreign and you want everyone to feel good about themselves the way you do. Look in the mirror. Grab each and every piece of what might be considered extra and ask yourself what is this. Do I want it there, do I really care or am I burning with gossip and regretting myself. The only options are to take action or otherwise, and otherwise leaves only you to answer to. Remember the time that you sang despite your legs giving way. Remember the way you fought a boy twice your weight like a tiger for your cub and remember that it is enough. Remember the crack of your hips as they shifted six inches apart, your spine as it burnt with kerosene flames. Remember the decisions you made that others criticised you for and then knelt before you to apologise.

Loving is about the smoke seeping from your lungs and the strength to cry and to be more than everything that ever hurt you and less than some people and that is okay.
Loving is seeing you grow, every day






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