Not good enough

"That is a very sexy dress" he once told me before taking it off. It was a blue dress with a white stripe. It was the dress that embodied sex appeal. My presence in it was merely circumstantial to him. This was the pinacle, the peak of his complements. The point at which I should linger endlessly imagining that more might come around the corner. That any minute if I waited he would decide to want me, to pull me in, to grab me hard. More didn't come. For a whole year I was left wanting and waiting.

"Why would you want that?" Someone who left you wanting, someone who would rather seek out sex with strangers than dare admit that they may actually want you. Why would I? Why would I not seek out the version of love that even strangers on tinder will show up to give me. Complimenting my yet unknown beauty with flower emoticons. Want me hard, love me big. Tell me all about it. This is how I want to be loved. 

This year was a year of pain and wanting, only neatly punctuated with moments of sheer bliss. Just enough to keep me hooked on the drug, waiting lonely and in pain for the next fix. Willing to rob banks for the oxcytocin he sold me in small dribbles, I hung around like a junkie on the street corner. Like sucking water drips from a broken faucet on a hot day I waited around for him to doll out small droplets of love. This pain was something I inflicted upon myself. I stood there and took it like a limp punching bag. Proof of purchase of my intelectual dominion over my reptilion brain. If I could just sit on my porch and serve him tea while he gave his body to others, I had won. I had won against biology. But I was really just treading water, bearing the pain with the hope that I could have the next fix, like a washed up crack whore. 

This is now a new chapter. A new book. A book bound in leather with gold embosed lettering. This next book of life will turn the corner on this waiting and wanting. I will offer up the world to myself. 

This book will have stories of love, of  wealth, abandon and abundance. Stories of rain showers and sunny meadows. 

All things yummy and good. Money and love will flow out of my pockets and spill onto the floor. I will only seek out and let in the best of what is good. This will be a salad year, a year of cheese and chocololate and wine. A year of dancing and friends. A year of beauty and play and creation. This is a new book.