February 14, 2018
Dear Phenomenal You,
This love letter to my inner goddess, the brilliant and beautiful soul that inhabits my brilliant and beautiful body, is long overdue.
I don’t say it near enough, but I love you. I mean, I really fucking love YOU.
You have survived so much during your time here on earth, the tiny blip that it may be in view of the lifespan of the universe. There has been so much to overcome, and heal. The scars that litter your soul are tattoed reminders that life often brings us challenges of endurance that test our capacity for love and its limitations. Yet, despite so many trials and tribulations you are still standing, and our heart wants to give the ovation you deserve. For remaining open. For never sacrificing your ability to love in the face of adversity.
For all the times you have felt like the world could not hold you, with your dreams and ambition so large, or the moments when you have felt as though you were a mere imposter. In reality, you are a mystical, magical, gorgeous, energetic wave of triumph and joy that not everyone can handle. As you settle into these bones, feeling more and more at home with who you are rather than what people expect you to be, you have become more at peace with letting those who don’t recognize your awesomeness go their own way. That process has been long and arduous, fret with misgivings, insecurity, and dread. But I am proud of how you stand now like a woman who has come into her own, sans apology, and holds the sacred ground she’s grown from with strength, dignity, and confidence. You have become adept at showing those without reverence for all you are how to find the door and walk themselves out, without regret.
I’m proud that you have found value in learning to give to yourself, and that you are not afraid to be alone (in fact, you seem to embrace it). You have learned to recognize that independence and self-dedication are incredible gifts, and that loneliness is mostly contrived from social expectation. After two marriages and countless relationships where your giving heart couldn’t help but put your significant other in the spotlight, it feels wonderful to bask in the glow of your own attention. You have learned that anyone who wants to be invited into your heart or bed must be nothing less spectacular than yourself, and just as generous. And now you discern that companionship, romance, and partnership are not a goal, but merely something to augment everything beautiful that is already there, and if it happens, how lovely. But if not, you are just as content to enjoy life on your own terms, on your own. There is nothing that can complete you when you are already the entire package wrapped in silver lame, and more.
If I had one wish for you, it would be for greater gentility when you fail. Understand the growth that comes from not always getting what you want, and how it can form and shape you in a direction you may have never considered. How failure can be your best friend because it means you aren’t afraid to gamble and risk, and the achievement of picking yourself up time, and time again, is an act of the highest form of love. It means you give yourself undying permission to be imperfect, and that you have come to a place where you believe in yourself so much that you can’t imagine not betting on your own house. You’ve become a high roller in the spirit of your own existence. Stop being so hard on yourself. The only expectations you should strive to meet in this life are your own.
Enjoy the body you work so hard to maintain and keep well. Let the sweat that burns from the inside out be the heat that fans your desire and motivation. Have the most incredible sex you could dream of, explore your sensuality to its utmost, and experience orgasms that quake you from head to toe. Don’t give time or attention to those who can’t, or won’t, put the same time and effort into making you feel good that you would put into yourself. And enjoy traversing your body on your own time and terms, so you know intimately what makes your tick, and exactly what you want and crave.
You are full of laughter, and joy. Dreamy. Intelligent. Funny. You are kind, brilliant, and carry a vibrant lust for life that is contagious. You are light, and love, and all things you always hoped you would become, because you always were.
May you always rock fishnets like it’s nobody’s business until you die.
May you know you are the phantasmagoric brought to life.
that I am unlovable.
the throat clenching gasp that who i am may never feel enough, as if i am an unglazed, clay vase that cannot hold enough water to quench the flowers, freshly cut and thirsty, because so much evaporates into the sunset.
the creeping dread that who i feel i am is not how you see me. that my strength is invisible and unwanted, that the passion that dwells below the surface, pulsing and radiating, goes ignored.
or i go beyond enough. too much. too vocal, too direct, too honest, too focused. feeling that i must dial myself back, make myself smaller for the comfort of others, shrinking the best parts of me so that i will not seem like more than what they can manage.
this vibrancy of my being, the range of my mind, the sea of all that is mine and beautiful is not a place where people feel they can swim without drowning.
the angst that despite all that i encompass, all the beauty I know flourishes, i will feel empty without the reflection of myself in the eyes of another to feel complete.
the scars of two divorces i cannot erase, hanging in the ethos, haunting…the ghosts of failure circling, longing for company.
It’s a date. It’s not a date. You’ve known them for seven years. You just met them five minutes ago. You met on Tinder. In a coffee shop. At school. In the library. In line at CVS.
You’re unsure she wants what you want.
You’re single. Taken. Married. Divorced. An ethical non-monogamist. Woman. Man. Trans. All the various spectrums in between.
You want to wrap your arms around her, feel the soft flesh connect with your own.
Her lips-plump, skinny, fat, soft, moist- are all you can stare at, and you fantasize the feeling of them setting fire to your own.
Her hand, strong but feminine, sits empty and you imagine your fingers grasping it tight.
Your fingers long to graze or stroke the plane of her body, mapping muscles and flesh.
Her voice trembles, shakes, or seems unsure. She says nothing at all. She speaks with authority.
You want to touch her right there _________. Her body screams say ‘yes’, but her actions and eyes yell ‘no’. She smiles, seems relaxed. Or she moves your hand without a word.
The aroma of her perfume clouds your head in desire, and you feel stirred.
Her skin is butter soft, and your fingertips long to explore every inch. Slowly. With ferocity. Delicate. Sweet. Starved.
You want her to touch right here _______. She keeps moving your hand away from where you want to place her. She moves her hand or mouth there by telepathy. Or she just holds your hand.
She wears fishnets and you want to draw the circles on her thighs with your hand. She wears jeans and you want to trace the seam of her calf with your fingertip. She wears shorts and you want to rub the crest of her knees. She wears nothing at all, and you want your hands everywhere.
You are 99.9% sure she wants what you want.
Reflections of a woman spawned in a cement cocoon...