I’ve been soaking up your album and now I’m drenched like a beach towel that fell deep into the ocean. Harrowing pain. Chords of questions. Why after why after why. I could wear this, I could be that, I could sex like this and more.
And I want to tell you one little thing, you may already know.
It’s not you.
I know this, the same way I know I was the one who wrote those messages, kissed that masculine face and sent word for word for word. All. To another man.
At the time, I didn’t know fear. I didn’t know how I would be if my man left me for this catastrophe. I didn’t even think it was a catastrophe.
You see. I didn’t know myself. I didn’t know how it felt to be sexy after those years of everyday.
After I met V, I was so scared of my femininity, I avoided looking at a handsome man in the eye.
I feared who I could be when this switch became alive.
I switched my sexy off because it was bad. Taboo.
My body reflected this. Grew in my safe harbour and surrounded my flesh with flesh upon flesh upon flesh.
Unsexy. I felt. I believed.
And maybe your man had another reason. Maybe it was all your glory. Maybe it was his lacking. Maybe it was your needs in his mind. Maybe it was in the meeting.
But I know, it wasn’t you.
That night, I woke up. V said to me, “I read the emails”.
And the hairs on my arm rose.
That. Is. Fear.
For the first time, I recognised consequence.
I thought we can’t go through this.
I thought it’s broken.
And in a way.
It was. I know it in the way he holds me.
Perhaps years have healed it.
To a degree.
Always to a degree.
I want you to know. It is not you.
It is not your sexy.
Not your shine.
Not your tenderness or coarseness.
Not your booming tones or sweet caress.
Because to change any of that, would be to change you.
And sweetheart, that is who he fell in love with.
And always is.
Something in him.
He needs to find it. Wrangle with it. Debate it. Question it.
And be honest enough to ask.
And be honest enough to answer with nothing but the truth.