The Art Of Saying No Was A Numbing In Our Mouths. We Learned How To Form It Gently, To Swallow The Punch,

the art of saying no was a numbing in our mouths. we learned how to form it gently, to swallow the punch, to let down with gentlest hands. we learned how to fake a smile, to force a chuckle, to take disgust and turn it into polite denial, to take fear and weigh our options and submit.  he said he needed sex because oh it hurt how we made him. he said we should have just smiled back at him. he said that we could have learned karate to fight them. he said that we couldn’t say no, he was our boyfriend. 

how many girls are raised to feel guilty for no. we feel it must come with a reason. our no has to have qualifications. if our no isn’t enough, we are expected to cave in. 

the battle of our inner strength and our outer bodies. how we calculate small injustice versus our personal safety. how we’d form no in small ways that made him feel like it was our fault. how we’d let him down in a way he wouldn’t follow us home. we’d say no without the words; lying about sudden appointments or phone calls, we’d invent husbands, we’d suddenly become best friends with the woman beside us. we always had someone waiting at home for us - usually big and angry - who would notice if we were missing. we enter in our phone numbers with the last two digits switched. we say we’re going to the bathroom we’ll be right back before we take off running. 

and our no, those two letters, was never good enough. we either rejected him too harshly or not clearly. if we said no, we weren’t in love. the no was too forceful, the no was too gentle. the no meant ask nicely, the no meant keep persisting. the no was because we’re all catty and cruel and hate nice men. the no was because we’re all paranoid bitches. the no was wait long enough and it’s a yes. the no was playing hard to get.

and our life was learning. it amazes me sometimes when men tell me, “but she never said no” and i hear her story. how he was her boss and she would lose her job and it was her everything. how he said no but men aren’t allowed to refuse these things. i was thirteen the first time i had to spend a two hour train ride gently turning down a middle-aged man and someone else told me i should have just screamed or hit him or done something. how the girls i told all nodded solemnly because they know what it’s like to be thirteen and scared and to be eighteen and scared and how to be twenty-three and scared. because we’ve all said no and had it blow up in our faces. we’ve watched men turn from flirty to aggressive. we’ve seen what happens to our friends.

but in the end it’s our fault. don’t you know a man can’t take rejection.

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If you tell a boy whose hair is curly and wild and who dresses in faded holey t-shirts that smell like worn cotton and home that he should comb his hair down for you and dress up nicer for you, then you are slowly killing him and replacing him with what you think he should have to be…for you. Do me a favor. Dont. This world needs more boys with wild hair and worn cotton shirts and if you cant appreciate him, let him go, because he does not need to be told that his comfort and style is wrong. He should be loved by someone who thinks that wild hair is beautiful, and that he is stunning in a suit or worn cotton or nothing at all, because that is what love is. Healthy love is accepting them as they came, with all their flaws and problems and quirks. You should not have to “fix” someone you love at all, if they are right for you, you will be able to grow together into better people. They might adapt around you as time goes on, and that is normal, growth and change is good and natural, but forcing change is brutal and mean. He deserves to be loved just the way he came to you, because someone thinks he is beautiful, and if you can’t do that, let him love someone who will.

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6 years ago

I always preferred the company of the dead. You try complaining about your life, surrounded by their wailing. Call it perspective.  And the living, well, they can’t look at me for too long, without dissolving into their most basic parts, only good for my cousin’s touch. Nobody likes looking at their own mortality. Everybody wants to die a hero. They don’t want to meet me with my howling dogs and lingering nature and blank eyes. I’m not unkind, no matter what the other Deaths say. I allow lingering goodbyes, lovers to meet again, scores to be settled. Just ask Patroclus, his hands fading  as he watched his lover weep.

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6 years ago

Immortality

Immortality. Tell me, is it worth it?

Is it worth it, proud Hera of marriage, to watch divorce become the norm, to watch marriage become a farce?

Is it worth it, lovely Aphrodite of love, to watch people fall in fake love, to watch the mortals police what kind is allowed?

Is it worth it, brilliant Athena of wisdom, to watch them misuse your gift, to use their minds to hurt others?

Is it worth it, mystic Persephone, to watch your flowers wither in the too hot spring sun, to watch more and more souls collect on the bank of Styx?

Is it worth it, pure Hestia, to watch families become chaotic, to watch more and more mortals living without a home?

Is it worth it, wild Artemis, to watch your forests be reduced to twigs, to watch the creatures you so sacredly pursue become endangered?

Is it worth it, mother of nature Demeter, to watch the earth suffer, to watch it bleed sickness and pollution?

Is it worth it, powerful Hecate, to watch the mortals forget about the magic in everything, to watch the little witch in young girls’ eyes burn out sooner and sooner?

Is it worth it, you pitiful mortals, to be forsaken and forgotten just as you forsake and forget?

Immortality. Was it worth it?

–Selcouth-Saudade

6 years ago

This absence. This emptiness. This hollowness. This nothingness. I feel them too much.

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