Carolime Time

is it so bad that in times of crisis and utter chaos, i feel most able?!

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I have learned to love a man. The hard way. Born beside, inside, I wore his clothes and bore his bruises. I followed his rules and knew my role. Played a different game, trained my voice not to be the same, I crossed my legs when told and appeared warm when cold. I stayed fragile. Protected my bones and lowered my voice. Squealed in fear and left the bugs to crawl. I wanted to dig my fingers into the soft, muted ground, feel the dirt in my nails, wash my hands and find a trace of brown in the pathways of my palms. I wanted to wrestle in the basement, be thrown onto the hard, cemented floor and rise with all my anger. I watched from behind a hard plastic window as you triumphed, I sipped hot chocolate in your midst, I glowered in your shadow. I raced home with the girls and watched children at play from my window. I have learned to love a man. Twirled the frocks of dolls, tightened my belt. Held my shoulders up, perked my chest out. Fluffed my dresses, blended colour into my skin, put their arms around me and smiled uneasily, uncomfortably, unsurely, awkwardly, with nothing to say, I stood and pulled his arm around my neck until his hand dropped on my flat, untilled breast. I was mortified. Beyond belief, I went forward. I shed your scabs and came out clean. I bought tight pants and put away the loose jeans. My clothing clung to my waist and I folded my arms across my chest, tucked my hands into my pockets, hunched my shoulders till I showed. I looked at them all and I liked them all because I liked none of them, I could never choose one because to me, they were none. Instead I peered secretly at the ones that walked in late, I stole stares at their hair and looked for them when they weren’t there. I thought I just admired them for what I wasn’t, and watched them for what I could be. I definitely became it all. I have learned to love a man. I have chosen one that takes a long time to get ready, loves to dress up, puts more time into his hair than me. One whose voice is high pitched, giggles, lets me cradle him in my arms. I love a man.

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