Ownership of the Writing Women

It's as if people think having a voice shares the likeness of riding in on a chariot ready to save a neighboring village from some impending doom.  I wish it were, this voice, that is.  I wish it were intended for saving small children, young women and their absent minded husbands.  But this voice is nothing like that.  It does not bear intention or hope to breed a mass following.  It is just a voice, a tiny voice that was designated to free the soul within me.  A voice trying to rid me of any shame I felt or any excruciating curse I felt trapped under.  It wasn't built for you.  I built it ... well I didn't build it.  It came rushing out of me like tidal waves, a vomit of emotion, I was nearly bulimic with my own thoughts.  Either way, it wasn't for you although it makes me no less happy that you found something for yourself in it; that you found something to relate to, that you found a place to rest your aching limbs.  I am glad that this voice can be comfortable for you.  

But it is not always comfortable for me.  These thoughts conflict, these emotions clash at one another like titans trying to find love.  These thoughts that manifest themselves into this voice fight through hell to sound like a slice of heaven.  And I know that may be hard to grasp because by the time you're reading, it's like "YES, SHE'S SPEAKING MY LIFE" and you never stop to think for a moment, that I live that same life over and over every time I speak it into a place in which you exist, into a place where you are comforted.  And how lucky you are that you get to relive it in the privacy of your own home, probably in the nook and crannies of your bed with the lights out, long after every one else has fallen asleep. Beside you, the condensation builds on your cool wine glass as you sip through the painful memories, anguished questions and characters who were once lovers.  You can cry in the dark, recall his smile in the moonlight, laugh at yourself or hide your shame in the glimmering light of your screen.

How I envy your privacy.  How I envy that your voice has no desire to press itself into words for others to manipulate, enjoy, grieve over, analyze and appreciate.  I wish I was as quiet as you.  But I'm usually not and in the haste of my voice to purge itself, there will be things you do not understand, things you will not agree with, lands you will never feel under your feet and men you will love never knowing that they died in my arms once upon a time.

I think I'm getting used to the fact that no man loves me anymore. Not in the romantic sense, not in the count my eyelashes as I sleep sense, not in the 'as long as she's happy, I'm happy' sense.  In those intimate senses, no man loves me anymore.  They are the dust of my memories, too dull or too much of a liar to grasp how good I would potentially turn out to be.  They, unlike you, were afraid of this voice.  They were afraid of being a character.  They were afraid of being a story.  Too bad they weren't afraid of being sweaty nightmares or haunting images in my mirror late at night.  You're probably wondering how we got here or if that was a random tangent.  It wasn't.  It was proof that just like those men aren't mine, I am not yours.  They do not belong to me,  I do not belong to you.  I am a spirit, a winding breeze that can brush against your cheek or lift your hair.  One day you may love that about me and the next you may hate it.  But we, you and I do not belong to each other.  We share a space that we hope will be enjoyable and everlasting but there will be times that it is neither.  In those times, there will be a creeping desire to disrespect and lash out.  I urge you to dim your humanness when it gets to that point and return only when you are driving with grace on your dashboard.  

I love you but I do not belong to you but maybe, one day, if I was owned by you, I would behave better.