I am tired of being treated like a vessel for your flimsy ego-driven wit, your 5pm-at-the-office-boredom, your ceaseless need to coddle an uncertain masculinity and your dick’s aimless desire for a “love” (of the lite variety) that’s not your own.
I am tired of being used to keep you young, to fuel that faltering self-image replete with fears of balding, saggy balls, and death. I am tired of being built up like a Jenga game, treated with precision until the final moment—the fuckboy fait accompli that was there, beneath your brittle kindness, all along—when the reality of that lie comes to a slimy head.
I am tired of being told by everybody not to fuck you, no—to fuck you, but not to fuck you, actually no—to fuck you again, if I EXPECT to keep you around. I am tired of there being “one right answer,” fueled by my nether regions alone, to the question of whether I am worthy of your respect: the simple recognition that I’m a fucking human, with feelings and a desire (yes, that’s right, what a GIRL wants) not to be misled.
I am tired of pretending that being fucked and chucked, under a drawn-out guise that’s much more wholesome, is okay. Tired of sitting on this anger because emotions borne in utero will only send the other fuckboys in gentleman’s clothing scurrying, hands over their precious balls, away. I am tired of pretending that such mistreatment is cool, so fucking #CHILL, that it’s just “par for the course”—the result of dating apps, the Internet, or whatever shitty complex your father gave you.
I am tired of recognizing this thick, smelly anger in other women, in goddamn Beyonce, and trying to talk myself into: “well, since it happens to all of us, it’s okay.” I am tired of hearing that, by merely responding to your call, we were asking for it; that in simply hoping, once more, you might not be utter shit, that you wanted to poke holes in our brain and not just our bottom halves, we had it coming. That it’s because we dealt you the wrong hand or took the right risk at the not-quite-right time.
Spare me these fantastical timelines, and focus on what’s driving them instead. Take a look at the eager-eyed men leading this pack, in place of the hordes of women on which they trample. Send them a heady dose of their barrel-aged bullshit, the sour way they leave our stomachs feeling when they court us only up until coitus, only to throw us quickly (with that long-practiced alley-oop) into the bin, decisively blind to how we land.