because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Sunday, 5 March 2017

Your Feminist Fucking Valentine

I sent flowers.

I sent flowers because I am your feminist fucking Valentine, and I held my breath for a night and a day because I wasn’t sure why I did it and what you’d think it might mean and I guess I thought that maybe your reaction would help us both to figure it out.

I wrote on the note that I am proud of you, too. I wrote on the note that I am proud of you, too, because there is a time delay to our conversations. I don’t trust you, yet, not even close, and sometimes you say things and because I try not to listen to what you say but rather what you do, it’s not until I get home that I realise. Piece fragments together – the parts of my grey-area subtext and your black-and-white words. You tell me often and easily that you’re proud of me. I don’t know why I don’t want to listen.

I did it when you called me your friend, too. You said you’d marvel at seeing me collect a BAFTA, one day, one day soon, and you’d say-- but I interrupted you. You’ll say, oh hey! That chick sucked my dick back in the day! I supplied. You shook your head. I was going to say look! That girl is my friend! actually. I couldn’t tell if I’d hurt your feelings.

So I write on the note that I’m proud of you too, and wish you a happy housewarming because I’d shown up two days before empty-handed and full of intentions. When you text to say you got it and I finally get to exhale, you say it is thoughtful and cute and sweet and other words that don’t match who I am, and I explain to you: They’re succulents. Succulents are pretty, but low-maintenance. You know. For the busy man.

You’d once told me you’re going to be busy for the next five years. It hurt my feelings and I’m still mad about it, especially because you got a new girlfriend two weeks after you insisted there was no time for me as one.

But the plants, they won’t need you. They’ll exist whether you remember to water them or not, pretty much. And I suppose what I was really saying is that I don’t need you, either.



(I still want you, though. Sometimes.)


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