Rough week. I seem to be saying to myself every week these days. The happiest and hardest times. I chose this. I chose this. I don't double guess my desire or if I should have except when I double guess if it were right for him. He needs someone weak, slim, adoringly naive. Someone who needs him and cherishes him more than he could ever cherish anything else. He needs to feel big and strong, the man, the protector. He needs to be able to sweep her off her feet-quite literally- and swing her around as she giggles and sings with a voice cool as Jerusalem air or she whispers into his hair sweet poems that trickle from her lips, down his throat, and into the pit of his fine being. I cannot do that. I don't sing. my voice changes. I'm too cheesy for poetry-I can't express what I feel. I can't move others hearts. God I wish I could. I wish I knew words. She'll adore him and need him and worship him. He quite deserves it I'd say. I don't care for male dominant relationships typically, but him I'd follow. So I could allow some precious feminine thing in his eyes to desperately contend for his every glance. That's what He needs. He must feel strong. He must feel man. He must Be those things he wants. I cannot give him that. I am not feminine. He told me that once, and by golly if my father didn't tell me a thousand times. I know guys, I know. I never played princess imagining the knight in shining armor. I played cowgirl who shot all the Indians. I played spy who ran with the boys on the dark alleys. I didn't trick and use feminine charm- I was smart, I was Sherlock. The Dragon his loving female waited for him to come fight, I slew it in 3rd grade with homemade sword of thread and stick. I was never a maiden in distress- a princess. ever. I was the heroine. I saved the day. I wanted to live life not watch it. Why couldn't I have been a pretty little girl? teeny tiny with a delicate figure, sweet hands-beautiful fingers, long soft flowy hair, smooth milky skin, color-captured eyes. I've a thickskinned/thick muscled body of an athlete, My hair is a tangled mess of curls all sizes, my short stubby fingers are nail-bitten (i hate them), my cheeks burn fire, and I'm terribly freckled. I sweat. my nail beds are wider than long. my cheeks swell chipmunkie if i eat late or my favorite foods. But much worse, I'm strong. I need no man. I am alone-some would say independent. I should have practiced my art painting wildflowers. I should have kept on reading....Little Women, Laura Ingles, Anne of Green Gables, and other tales of life. I instead put down my beloved books and picked up a ball, graduated college, raised champion livestock-I achieved well. But I never spent my time being and now I've become nothing. I love people because it is the only useful valuable thing left for me. I spent the time I couldn't becoming, achieving and now all empty me can do is listen and love. I've nothing to offer these people.
The closest thing I got to feminine was I learned to be a woman. I learned I would never get a man being fat, which I was fine with for a while but then the pounding, echoing words of my mom wrung so long my pinball mind was near explosion and I learned how to starve myself skinny, how to dress for his eye, to apply thick black liner around my eyes, and as I learned what "men" liked I planned my next mundane day. I fell many a man while I rose to the top.
That's not a lady thing. You deserve a real lady. innocent and loving. I know too much. I want more than anything to be made to adore you. God I would do it, and I would do it well. I would so truly mean it. But it's not what you need. I love you with how you are, I don't love you for an illusion of who you want to be seen as. I'm not sure there's a difference honestly because you're grand. really really grand...but you need a sweet adoring girl that can't breathe unless looking at your strong chin and dashing eyes. I, my friend, can't look at you cause I'm filled with shame. I'm not a lady.
I could make you trip. I did. Oh man of character. you need a woman that trusts and believes. I can't anymore. I want love so bad, but I've never even seen it. I serve purpose here on earth. I'm strong, I endure. This is not feminine. She must believe there is still beauty. She must lighten the whole world with but a delicate touch. My hands are meant for tugging and toil. I'll admire as you share a sweet perfect life. Gosh you'll be envied and inspire many. It will be beautiful. You're charming, my man. A dream. Truly dreamy. Polished and Professional.
I'm large. I'm bulky. I make any man look young in frame. I hate it at times. Others I don't care. I wish I could inspire you. I wish I had beautiful things to say to move your heart. I stumble on my words alot and I can never say what I want. Not for fear, I try, but it can't escape my heart chambers, my mind gallows, my deep heavy swallow. I can offer you simple plain things, but they're cheap substitutes for what you really want. you want real, expensive, delicate china. I'm a dollar store painted glass plate. Looks the same, but cracks first time through the dishwasher.
I wish I could tell you I know your soul. I feel it all the time. But I can't describe it and I never say the right thing to it. Some romantic girl will vey well. And that makes me happy. I can feel you when you're far, I can feel you when we're near. I fasted once while your days were dark. You'd not told anyone yet but I knew. You were gone that weekend of course. I fasted in your stead. I slept til 6:30 in the evening depressed. It was a very mild case. I mean real, but mild taste of what you had, but because I could taste I could sense the depth of the full compacity. I feared for you. I wept without tears. I wanted to die. I wanted to die. Of course I've been mildly depressed too on my own but yours was bad. That's how I know you're a gentleman. You hurt and suffer at our deeds. I'm too calused, it never meant much to me. I got away Scott-free. Not really, I just couldn't resist. You're taking on my suffering carrying my load, you've asked for that responsability. God I love you. But I couldn't live a life like that doing that to you. You'd drown beneath the weight of my luggage.
Why was I never meant for innocence. I always wanted to know, but never the one people expected to wonder. Why didn't I sit around dreaming of him saving me and swooping me up and work on my womanly charms? Why didn't I practice an adoring smile? a slight arm squeeze. a sweet delicate smooth walk. Because I still do those things without the practice-and it's real.
Alright, It's been real. Real wrong. I want to be what you need but I can't. I want you more than to breathe. I chose you, I chose this. I said I'd stick by and I've never regretted it. But I hurt you and will not bring what you want. I can't fulfill certain things.
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