Probably just as well. I don't do poetry well. It annoys me. Probably less spoken aloud, but reading poetry just causes the words to rattle around in my head so I can't understand them. So if some guy had ever written poetry to me, I would have stepped on his poor open heart with the savage cleats of my laughter.
Nonetheless...
I had one great love; I had one man very much in love with me. Fuck, we got married... That's already more than many women have had. But I never had much of feeling of womanly power. Not sexual power, necessarily, but the almost certainly mythical love of ... well, something. Something that happens all the time in books (and movies and songs, too, but those don't get into my mind and heart in the same way as a novel.)
At this moment I am simultaneously angry that books lied about those things and that I've never had them. And at myself for wanting something that doesn't exist.
And maybe at the world, because I'm pushing 50, and it's not likely I'll ever capture someone's attention that way.
And I wish I could turn this into some sort of magic card that would permit me to smite certain persons for fucking these imaginary things up for me.
The saving grace, if there is one, is that at least I don't take all this too seriously. Maybe I notice that part of me needs some care, but not as any actual deserving...
what-fucking-ever
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment