Call me pretty. Please?
Say something to me. Let me know that I am the most beautiful girl in the world. After all this work and care, say something. Anything. Let me know that it was all worth it. Pay me for my work, damn.
Affirmation shouldn’t have to come from you. Affirmation shouldn’t have to come from a penis-carrying vessel like you. But I want it and I can’t fight it and it pains me to sit here at the brink of tears because I think that you don’t see me.
You really don’t see, huh? I know by the time you gift me and the physical touch you withhold at my behest that you do see me. I do matter to you. I am special. I am important. I am worth four hours and thirty-eight minutes of your day. That’s how long we parlayed on the phone. On some high school shit. Minutes of breathing into each other’s ear because being present in the moment was worth more than the absence of sound. You had to be here with me, I had to be there with you.
But that’s not how today feels. Today, I wanted words. I wanted coos. I wanted resistance toward taking things to a more heart wrenching level because we swore we wouldn’t do such a thing. I gave you an opportunity to say something to me about the work that kept me off the phone with you earlier in the day. Five hours of standing in front of a mirror, old school jams blasting, as I parted and gelled and twisted my hair. Twenty-two inches of premium yaki with hopes of playfully swing these coils in your face.
You asked me about my day. I told you about my impromptu hair appointment. Images of my best work have been on the internet for hours. I know you peeped. But then that monster silence creeped in and I slouched deeper into my bed, covered in disappointment. I got off the phone to give myself the freedom to cry and lament in silence as to why I’m even doing this again.
This again thing with you and I is par for the course. Here we go again, here this thing goes again. He’s back in my life again. I let you back in my life again. You violate me again. I get angry again. I create distance again. I miss you again. You double-tap and like and retweet to show me that you miss me again. I cave to the ideas of what I thought our relationship could be again. Rinse and repeat. Again.
Again I see here angry that you don’t see me. Why do I care so much about being seen by you? Why do I care about you not calling me pretty?
I know I’m pretty. Why on Earth am I crying because I didn’t hear it from you?
ciara roslyn-james 