This Makes No Sense
You don’t make sense. I don’t make sense. But we make sense. What kind of sense is this?
Is this what it feels like to be completely wrapped up into someone who doesn’t want you like you want them? I don’t know how many times I can catch a ride on this train, man.
I hid in dudes’ inboxes like it’s shelter. Like it was a safe space. They got to see the demons I hide for the sake of respectability. Like if people knew this was the real me? Whew, boy. Real me can be such a sacreligious wench.
That sounds super harsh toward myself but I have to keep it real with you. Like I’m not sure that you know that I wear many different masks in this world. There’s my Thursday night mask, my Sunday morning mask, my Saturday night mask, the ovulation period mask, my regretful and lamenting mask, my IDGA-single-solitary-F mask. That holier-than-thou mask. That if-you-only-knew-what-I’m-thinking-about-you’d-list-yourself-as-a-reference-for-my-next-place-of-employment-called-Hell mask.
I’m a mess. Such a lovable mess. But I guess I have to be honest about all of these mind spaces and places because if I don’t, I’d act like nothing about me needs to be worked on or fixed. And my oblivious-to-everything mask got buried years ago. A zombified version of that would freak me and the rest of the world clean out.
I appreciate that you appreciate my transparency about all of these thoughts and phases of my life. I only recently came to terms with these things as well. A whole bunch of “Girl, fix your face. And yourself” moments in the past year. But I think you only get this because you’re as terrible as me. You ain’t no good either. And you feed my aint-no-goodness. So I run to you like you’re my savior. How trash is that?
You met me when I was such a fraud trying to figure out life. You continued to know as my fraud-ass behavior got called out. You stayed when I challenged you to look at me differently than that fraudster you fell in lust with. But when I wanted to one night to act like a phony, you’d indulge me. I felt like I could hide where you were so no one can see it. Like others couldn’t see through the BS. That’s the thing. You think you’re super Teflon and that no one can penetrate this “life” you created for yourself meanwhile everyone is talking behind your back about how broken you are.
People see the brokenness but don’t care to confront you about it. Human beings, that’s us.
I told you to delete a part of my past and you lied and said that you did it. And I believe you. But also secretly wish that you didn’t. Because when you would mention it, that old-school, old-life pride would catch such a high. Like the game is still intact. Except you played me. And I kept asking to get put into the game because what did I have to lose? And what other team was there to play for?
I made a vow to myself to no longer get played which has turned me into playing scared. I’m waiting for the shoe to drop. I don’t give grace to make mistakes. It really ain’t fair to you or myself. So retirement feels good until you meet somebody. God, why? Then I have to confront that sacreligious wench that I can be.
This is my attempt to write every day in July. To read more, follow the hashtag #wedj2019!