The Wandering Aesthete

gayerthanjew:

i feel my american-bred sense of entitlement the most when i get annoyed that the ‘united states’ is sorted in alphabetical order on a drop down menu and not just listed at the top

(Source: margaeryswolf, via whitegirlblog)

I don’t like to read the title of a poem before I read the poem. To me it’s like reading the information next to a painting before looking at the painting. Or even those fuckers who read the last line of a book before they agree to read the book in it’s entirety. Those are people who are afraid of their own thoughts, perceptions, endings and I think those people should buck up. But maybe reading the poem first is my own diluted sense of rebellion.

I’m the daughter of divorce. 

I dont have the usual story. My parents didn’t sit me down when I was six and tell me that they both love me very much but they don’t love each other anymore. I didn’t spend weekdays in one home and weekends in another. My holidays were not split right down the middle, and I didn’t get two separate birthday cards. 

Instead my parents stayed together. They stayed together for the kids. But they were never really together in my lifetime. They stayed together out of love for their extended family, not out of love for one another. 

So instead of being raised in two homes, I was raised in one incomplete home. To call it a broken home wouldn’t necessarily be correct. I was never beaten, neither of my parents are drunks. They both held high paying jobs and still attended my lacrosse games whenever they could. But it was a little broken. There was a crack in the wood so we put a beautiful table cloth over it.

But there was another reason they stayed together. They stayed together because they thought it would be inappropriate not to. 

I am the product of two people whom I have never known to love one another. 

I have never had a successful relationship. My intimacy issues are off the charts. Is this there fault? Who knows. 

What I do know is that two normal, healthy heterosexual people do not necessarily create a normal, healthy home life. So to, there is no reason a normal, healthy home life can not be cultivated by a same sex couple. 

Is it really better for two people who don’t love each other to raise a family than it is for two people who do love each other by the virtue of the fact that the former happen to be a man and a woman?

Marriage is not sacred. Love is. Letting love be the deciding factor when it comes to marriage is the only hope that the institution of marriage has for approaching sanctity.

My parents should not have been married. They should not have been married when my mother was working long hours just to avoid my father. They should not have been married when my father’s business trips got extended indefinitely to prolong his affairs. They should not have been married. But there are plenty of couples, whether heterosexual or homosexual who should be. Let’s stop reserving the right to marry for just one group and give everyone the chance to fuck up and marry the wrong person, shall we?

You lacked courage. I didn’t. People think you were perfect. And you damn near were. I was nowhere close. But your delusions of chivalry and courage, those remnants of a distant age that you held close to your flannel shirt that was not in fact the armor you dreamed it was, they were in fact delusions. You thought yourself self sacrificing, brave, courageous. You were none of those things. I was all of them. You had far better traits than I but I possessed the ones you coveted and lacked and you never forgave me for it. 

You thought yourself a hero but you were the damsel. How else can you describe someone who needs someone to need them? You may think I was a defeatist but I didn’t need you to be an optimist. Your optimism was not constructed from a perpetual good mood but rather the blissful ignorance of someone who has had to make no sacrifices. Why would you when you demanded them solely of me? I was weighed down with the negativity I needed to harbor and hide from you in order for you to maintain your optimism. 

Sure, I was depressed. But you were attracted to my depression. Do not deny it. At least I had the courage to admit I had a problem, you couldn’t admit that I did. For if you did, who was to stop me from solving it? Where would you be when I didn’t need you right beside me and in front of me. No. If I fixed myself I might see the cracks in your veneer, and worse, you might. 

You were lovely and loving and nothing will ever change that. But my neediness was a mirror of your own. So I had the courage to break that cycle. Just like I had the courage to admit that I loved you and all of the horrors that went with that. Just like I had the courage to admit that I wanted us to either be together or to be apart. But instead you fucked other girls and called me the next day to tell me how much you loved me. I may have been upset but I was never a liar. You should have had the courage to love me or leave me but you didn’t. I did. 

I could have forgiven your lack of courage if you could have forgiven my possession of it. But what is a hero with no one who needs to be saved?