If anybody ever read this ever they definitely don’t now. Just my own echo chamber.
I came here tonight to find a poem someone wrote about me years ago. Which maybe sounds conceited and maybe it is. But I used to be somebody that people (or person, at least) wrote poems about. I used to shine brightly, and I wanted to dip back into that for a moment.
Is this a getting older thing? Do we all just shine brighter before we’ve been hurt? Before we lose?
Years ago when I was recovering from The Great Heartbreak and the many Minor Heartbreaks that followed, I had what felt like a moment of clarity where I realized that there were parts of myself that I’d learned that people (men) liked—they liked that I liked poetry, that I believed in beautiful things, that I was an optimist. They liked this romantic spark in me, this drive that I had to find the bright things in the dark. And I had this feeling that I had been leading with these parts of me because I knew that these parts would make me seem special and different. And I decided that I wouldn’t do that anymore—that those pieces of me were special and I wanted to keep them safe and guard them as opposed to using them as some sort of manic pixie bait.
I had a phase for awhile where men that I slept with—that I was seeing/dating/whatever—wanted to take a photo of me in bed. Nothing salacious, just literally like me propped up in bed or whatever. The first time was a compliment, but it eventually felt like the point of the photo was that it was some sort of souvenir—a way of fixing me in time, or some admittance that this thing I had with this person wouldn’t last. I came to resent the whole idea of it.
So I guess what I’m wondering is: have I dulled with age? Is it that I’m more guarded now? Genuinely less special? And how much of that was genuine and how much of it was knowing what people wanted? When did the scales tip? It’s been ages since I read poetry and longer since I wrote any. I don’t know why.
I don’t really know where I went. Nor do I really know where I’ve gone with this. But it was nice and also awful rereading that piece. I hope you’re well, J.
