Have you ever heard of sexy that wasn’t also dark and sad?
That’s what I relied on, and a touch of reverse engineering
I’d add dark to my sad and, bippity boppity boo
I wish to be sexy.
I don’t know if it ever really worked, ever gave me that leg up I thought it did. I was forcing them to feel for me so that maybe they’d feel something- I was grasping at straws before the barn set fire.
I saw it as my secret weapon, my stories, in a holster normal people would just call ‘daddy issues.’ But the way I could sum it up was always ‘family stuff:’
Family stuff because everyone else had a word for it, words I hated just on principal, because so many voices sang them back to me, words I never really believed even though they could’ve saved me.
And even now I feel it itching, creeping its way back up- I feel that current like re-entry it’s impossible to stop. But I stop. In the midst of whatever conversation I’m having with him,
and I think
“You are not that girl who overshares so they’ll feel sorry for you. You are not that girl who cries so that they’ll love you. Because pity earns you kisses but pity does not equal love, you are not a pity pity pity-ful you are not full of that anymore.”
Family stuff was my identity, you see. It was my Common App essay, that bright shining trophy of a summary of a life and a being reduced to that holster that most normal people would just call ‘daddy issues.’
And yes, I do have daddy issues.
But recently I realized, am still realizing,
that maybe I also have me.