*Published in my college newspaper April 2017. Edited.
Insecure. Anxious. Uncertain. Doubtful. Unassured. Shy. Timid. Diffident. All driven by despicable, undeniable, and utterly ridiculous fear.
Look at me, dammit, actually look at me! Do you see it, do you see me? Do you actually see what's inside of me? Ha, don't you dare answer. I already smirk at your innocence, your pitiful lies. Of course, you don't. You will only see what you want to see. You will only see him!
He's ignorant, foolish, idiotic, clueless. He sees nothing...he is nothing! He looks down on me. I look down on him. He orders me to kneel. I order him to kneel. He calls me what he wants, when he wants. I call him what I want, when I want. We're wrong for one another, you see. We can't handle each other's wants and desires. We can't handle each other's aches and pain. He leaves me crying, angry, stressed, broken, whenever I need comfort, love, affection. He doesn't care about me, about anything at all...even when I do myself.
So what is it with people wanting to see what they want to see? Do you know that things aren't always what they seem to be? Do you think my happiness is actually real? So what if I'm smiling from ear to ear, full of sunshine and rainbows while galloping through fields filled with daises? Haven't you noticed I've been suffocating, internally screaming every time I see him, straining my vocal chords for the past six months?
"You guys are perfect for each other!" they say, "you're the luckiest woman alive! How can you not love a man like him? You're so perfect. He's so perfect! You're too beautiful for him!"
Lies, lies, lies! All of you are full of them! Since when are compliments not genuine? Since when do people spit false perceptions and fake their way into life in order to get something in return? They don't even know half of what I think, half of what I've been through!
Who knew I would be that woman who looks out the window with desires to flee whenever her husband would get ready for work in the morning? Who knew I would be that woman who despises how they sleep in bed, waking up to go for a drive until the sun peeks over the horizon the next morning? I can barely even look at myself in the mirror, turning away from my reflection, hating the way I look, dress, even move. When he smiles during his social involvement at dinner parties, I want to slap every inch of his happiness off his face. When he laughs at the woman whose cleavage is too visible to be called desperate, I want to smash his head against the wall of our so-called home.
I'm trapped, a prisoner in this house of false truths. These black and swollen bruises have no lips. These faded tears and cries have no vowels. These deafening screams and shouts have no words. So forgive me if I call you a liar. Forgive me if I want to throw you off the highest cliff in the universe if you think you know me, if you think you know what's going on in my life. You don't see it. You don't see anything. You don't know nothing.
So again, forgive me when I don't burst into a bunch of little stupid sobs at his funeral, when his death means absolutely nothing to me but definite joy. So what if he lays there cold, pale, and lifeless in his casket? So what if I don't throw white or red flowers on his grave? He created that fear, don't you understand? He made me insecure, anxious, uncertain, doubtful, unassured, shy, timid, and diffident.
So I apologize, really, if I dance on his grave and applaud with laughter without a façade. Because guess what, baby? That's what he deserves. If you don't believe I actually don't give a shit about this man nor love him at all, watch me light a cigarette and enjoy.