“The look of love alarms/because tis filled with fire” -Blake

It is easier not to love.

I have searched like a Labrador abandoned for one to call my own. My dog was dumped by the side of the road for being less than a purebred. I have looked for a family. The one I gave her was insufficient but I loved her.

I loved. My dog, my sister’s cat, the horses. Others, who I stayed away from. Doing my best to keep myself safe from love, I suppose. Keeping them safe from me.

The only spell I can cast consistently. Feigned hatred, a simulation of one who believes she deserves better. The girl who loved love, but gave it up for the sake of those who deserved it more.

We follow the same old social scripts without meaning to. I rejected him, and I said ‘I am saving you’ but he did not hear me. I mocked him except I did not mock him, but close enough to the story he expected that it would hurt him, close enough to make him into the kind of man I believed he wish to be. Forced him to assimilate. Played my part.

We all have a part to play.

Internally is where the conversation takes place. Disability and sex and gender and culture and I am not as good as them, not as good, you should be with them instead, don’t you think so?

Every girl perhaps thinking, he would surely be happier with a girl with a smaller stomach than me. Every man thinking, I can make her stay with power, but she will be drawn to the man in the room with the biggest….bankroll dick ego. Whatever.

I’m not crazy, particularly. But I loved animals and they taught me how to belong to the forest. They told me to listen to my body. They convinced me the world is not such a bad place, sweetness in the blood, harmony in the chest. Rainbows pulsing through the throat.

Girls learn early to erase all traces of the body. Men do not like girls who are assertive or hairy or meat eaters or predatory or aggressive or loud or. He selected the Barbie doll who pays for a bikini wax and monthly spa treatment. I paint my nails watching television dramas about happy families.

I am still 13 and Britney Spears is on television and she is teaching me that no one will ever love me. I cannot bear the intensity of community or continuity. I do not feel jealous of the girls who bleached their hair and wore platform sandals and miniskirts in winter. But I wish they would take what is theirs, not whatever they can carry. I wish he had not let himself be taken. I wish someone were interested in what I feel, what I would choose.

The parade of romance is well established and cannot be completed between individuals of different social classes. All that might happen is an unplanned pregnancy, a mistake, or an indeliberately cruel seduction. Girls like me learn not to take much. To assume we deserve nothing.

I hold a different script in my hand than the one in his hand. I think he could understand me but he disagrees.

I am a lone and breaking thing. I gave this girl my voice so she could love him in my place. I am the girl every white man leaves behind when he becomes white. I am the shadow of an unbearable past. I have loved him for all my life.

Writes all the things. Photographs the light. Smiles at odd moments. Reads in the shower. Sings to the trees. Hopes a lot.

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