Dear me,
I am intoxicated.
On memories, holidays, and goddamn ouzo —
the Greek elixir for getting hyped up with dinner, music,
and because I fucking want to.
After two days of coming home, the bag was packed again,
diving into the god's country of food, ego,
and the I don't care button that automatically switches to on
once you cross the border.
But this part is the easy one.
Coming home is like an exorcism of every previous version of me
I have purposely broken to rebuild —
awakening and questioning,
have you really left all the pain behind,
or you have nothing to remind you of it where you're at now?
I feel some of them haven't forgiven me for what I put them through.
There is a slight hatred in their voice
when I say I am happy.
And I know them too well to pretend I don't understand why.
—
Dear me, I told you before —
there are no coincidences.
And I stand firmly behind it.
While I am here, my childhood friend just happensto start working at the nail salon where I had an appointment.
Surprise is hardly what I felt when I saw her there.
Mostly a question —
what's hiding behind that corner waiting for me to turn right?
A quick catch-up about how we should catch up soon.
We always say we will catch up.
I think it is one of those sentences people say
the way you say bless you —
automatic, polite, and never actually meant.
—
But a 7pm IG call, while I was having a cigarette with my mom,
got me putting my shoes on
and walking toward the church of my childhood —
the local coffee shop where all the gossip was born
and many hearts were hurt.
Especially mine.
Secrets I remember telling to people
who did not deserve to know me that well.
And part of the woman haunting my body
is the little girl who I was back in that coffee shop,
sitting between two chairs,
two judgments,
and two friends.
I arrived five minutes later.
Sat in that exact same seat.
And the only thing that had changed
in this lifetime of rebirths
was me.And the coffee shop.
—
A. was complaining about exactly the same things
she was complaining about ten years ago.
Same script. New decade.
Same blame — everyone else but herself.
S., the diplomatic one,
the one who had supposedly figured it all out,
told us it is perfectly fine if this is what we want from life.
You got it wrong, S.
I didn't need approval.
I already had my own.
Who and what you both still are
is no longer interesting to me.
I have outlived you both a hundred times over.
—
In my memories, you are beige.
The colour of constantly making myself smaller
so you could understand me —
and you were still failing to do so.
I am not trying to be any less intimidating
so you won't feel threatened.
It would be a waste of my talent.
I am the original black —
classy.
Non-negotiable depth, mystery, and power.I am the purest white —
full of individuality, transparency,
and mental sophistication.
And believe it or not,
no one is capable of questioning that.
You can dim someone else.
I am no longer available for this role.
—
You know those people who always tell you
it is okay to be exactly as you are?
They always sound to me
like they are reaching for wisdom
their own life never gave them the depth to hold.
A sentence borrowed from somewhere they never actually visited.
We tend to reject everything we do not understand.
And as my friend V. always says:
"Tanya, you are Pandora's box.
Nobody understands you,
so people will either try to put you down
or distance themselves.
Don't blame them.
That's all they're capable of.
It has nothing to do with you."
—
Dear me,Look me in the eyes and tell me honestly —
why did you go?
Why did you come back home frustrated,
carrying someone else's stagnation
like it was suddenly your weight to hold?
You already knew all this.
The girl they always called the broken one.
She isn't in that coffee shop anymore.
She never was.
They were just still looking for her.
—
Twenty years later, the woman I sat across from
still wasn't understood.
Still had no approval.
Still looked at me like I was the one who needed saving.
Dear me — they didn't grow.
They just got older.
And I finally stopped waiting for an apology
from people who don't even know what they did.
0 comments