Red Lips & Battlefields

The Destructive

I am tired. Tired of tight bodices under short dresses. Perfectly waxed legs. Painful heels that make the balls of my feet burn, the delicate sides of my toes rip. Tired of walking like I’m on a runway… one step in front of the next, a dance in my hips. Full figured sexy. I’m tired. Tired of turning my nose up against a slice of french toast. Of shaming myself into refusing a bite of chocolate because it will take permanent residence against the sides of my hips. I’m tired of sinking my teeth into tastelessness, binding myself within traditional notions of womanhood, repressing the bulge in my waistline in a corset that forces me to breath little, short breaths, or not breathe at all. I’m tired.

Tired of running my fingers through textured fabrics on manufactured racks in stores with bright glaring lights that don’t flatter the creases in my skin, looking for something that will render me beautiful. I’m tired. Tired of minding the straightness of my back even as I attempt to sink into the couch in the privacy of my own living room, when nobody is watching. I am tired of being confined, prepped, primed, manicured, brushed, whisked, flushed, lip-stuck. I am tired of being stuck. I am tired of my fingers straightening and toes curling, back stiffening as the masseuse asks me to relax. I am tired of paying people to tell me what to wear, how to draw on a mask of perfection, how to run my fingers through my hair, and how to run myself through the cellar of life: refining, hiding silently in darkness, tasting “better”. Paying my time. Paying my love. Paying my heart. Paying.

I’m tired of sweet wines and deep cognacs that weaken my mind, that make me more of the woman they want with every sip, and with every sip less the woman I am. I am tired. Tired of overwhelming perfumes, masked eyes, long nails, bright lipsticks. Tired of long hair, straightened into perfection, not one strand out of place: lifeless. I am tired of holding my breath and holding my stomach, training my voice into song-tune for the rare occasion when it is allowed to utter a word. I am tired. Tired of giggling. Tired of pretending. Tired of drawing myself, painting myself, washing myself out. I am tired of empty promises and weak kisses stolen under frozen twilights in frozen cities. I am tired of faking orgasms. Tired.

– Anonymous
March 18, 2014.

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