I’m sorry. I’m just. I’m really fucking sorry.
Every time I look at you [still] I have something not nice to say. Even though you’re trying your best.
I’ve always tried to make you something you weren’t. The world sold me on dissatisfaction. So I poked holes. Deflated our unicorn float. Rescinded it to the edge of the pool. It’s a wonder you still talked to me after that.
Every morning, my coffee sits on the burner. Every morning, this is my window to remember you. I stack my hands over our small chest. *I beat you up for that, too. Remember in 2012 when I decided implants would make me love you more?
Anyway, the morning.
Every morning, I gather my hands on our bloodBeater. Close my eyes. Tap into the rhythm of how bad I need you. Stick a yellow post-it on your door that says thanks. Sometimes, with a smiley face.
Mostly, without.
I hope you know I’m not a bad person. I was just trained by idiots. Programmed like a toy soldier to fight you to the death. See you as the enemy. Something to be conquered, mastered, detained, starved. Taught to interrogate, torture, and bend to my will.
Thank you, Kate Moss. Thank you, Nicole Ritchie. Calista Flockhart. Although I don’t blame any of you for this long-term separation. You were just stick figures trying to carve out love on the wrists of impossible standards.
You were just like the rest of us.
I see you differently now, Body. I do. Better than I used to. I can smile at us in the mirror from time to time. I love the way we dress together. Never mind that our gray streaks shot forth from the scalp of chronic fear. It has grown to suit us. A thinning scar that tells a story.
I love our nose. Our jaw. I love the color of our eyes. Even though it took me a long time to stop dreaming in blue. We are settled in these aspects now.
Dear Body,
What I mean to say is. There’s hope for us yet. Maybe it will take an Ayahuasca ceremony. Maybe it will take an ISTA retreat. Maybe it will take showing up every day. Pouring a blessing before coffee. Maybe it will take another half a life.
Maybe I’ve never experienced that kind of love before. Maybe I don’t even know what that kind of love is. The kind that doesn’t ask for anything in return. The kind that’s not conditional. The kind that doesn’t require constant criticism and submission to be administered.
How do I find it? Show me.
And I promise
I’ll save some for you.
Sincerely,
Your inconsistent host
Rosie
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