I am tired of weak women. What happened to us? Eyeliner winged, stilettos tapping the ground rhythmically, heads held high, and yet we’re so broken inside. How did we become a generation of professional women with critically low self esteem? Why is nothing we do ever good enough? We can be mothers, daughters, sisters, friends, and somehow if you’re single, if a man finds you undesirable, that’s the tipping point. That can cost you everything.
I’ve seen smart girls fall into the most obvious traps, losing their minds over heartless boys who never gave a second thought to their sufferings. I’ve seen her chase pills with vodka and cry in the hospital wing after getting her stomach pumped while he sat there guiltily, mumbling useless apologies. You don’t apologise for breaking a heart, it takes exceptional cruelty to expect forgiveness for such a crime.
I’ve seen her draw hearts in chalk on his doorstep, drowning out the unbearable noises in her head, warning her that he is nothing but a mistake. I saw her break a plate in half and draw colourful lines on her wrist with the porcelain edge, and a terrible smile settled on her face. She was an angel before he stole her wings.
I am tired of weak men. What happened to you? What sort of sadistic pleasure do you derive from destroying beautiful women? What is so much easier about lying than telling the truth? Why do you thrive on the ambiguity, on empty promises, on vague implications of a possible future involving two, when that is never your intention? Why give us the illusion that we mean something and then blame us for believing in magic?
I will not settle for your late night guilt, when the last quarter bottle of rum reminds you of the taste of her and you ponder the idea of calling, and you wonder if she misses you too. She does not.
I will not accept the regret that comes two years later, when you see a face that reminds you of her but the new girl is not as pretty, and you wonder if you made a mistake. Yes you did.
So take your sheepish smile and use your charm on someone more naive, a brown eyed girl with curly lashes who lies in bed and pictures the two of you happy, and hurts when you never call. You will never hurt me.
I am tired of weak people. Look alive, darling, the fight’s not over yet. Let’s go to war over nothing, the same reason as always. Tell me how much you loved her silky blonde hair and soft lips that always tasted like cherry chap-stick. Tell me how she wept on the kitchen floor clutching a bottle of gin when you told her the truth isn’t what she’d always wished for. Tell me how you’ve kept busy all these years trying to forget the way she smiled on the way out, dragging the last of her luggage and the last piece of her shattered heart. Tell me I should never love you. I promise I won’t.