if feels stale, that old adage. âdont base your self worth on men.â
stale in the sense it only works in beautiful, satisfying settings. a forest, on a retreat. a beach, on a vacation. but oh god, it feels especially stale here.
in town, in the club, in the city. the hustle and bustle of it all. the guys - oh, the guys. the guys who you put a performance on for. dress, so maybe theyâll like you. the makeup, for them. the hair, the perfectly styled cool-but no so cool- messiness.
its hard, out here, in the wild west of neon lights, to not base myself on them. on the guys. who look. who look at my friends, but not me. what do they have? its hard not to resent them. for their prettiness. skinniness. perfectness.
i feel as though i will always be in their shadow. learn to make myself smaller. disappear, before these *guys*. oh, these guys.
these guys, who, despite the quotes and the positivity and the song, i find myself performing for. hoping. hoping that i will he plucked out of a crowd. wanted, even by a stranger.
its a loneliness that curses. that asks me to not âbase my self worth on men.â but how can i not? when here, i am the prey no-one wants? when here, i am the gazelle, lonely in the field, hoping even for someone to run from? loneliness even from fear. from wantedness. from love.
