I don’t make love easy.
I don’t know, maybe my stubborn battles stem from subconscious value for self, value for ideals, desperate need to kill boredom.
If you can’t come at me like a starving beast, then just roll over and snore. Because I want all.
And then the revolts.
I can cross my arms. My mouth can play the devil’s advocate to my own heart. I don’t have to agree to anything. I don’t have to eat. I don’t have to get out of bed.
I don’t need a calendar. My blood burns, feels every phase of the moon. I know when it’s full.
And I’m not old yet.
One time I tried to knock him over, who remembers why? And I’m no Yorkie, lap chick. I’m a St. Bernard lady beast. I’m a lioness.
I slammed into him. Like he was one of those things the football players run at. Like that.
He didn’t budge. He laughed, which infuriated me.
What do you want with me? I don’t know a damn thing about guns or cars or politics.
Why me? I am loud music and Tetris-y games and poured out feelings. I’ve seen girls who like guns and cars and politics. Why not them?
But okay, no I get it. I know guys who are just like me, full of feels and…
You won’t ever have to babysit me at a party. But just know…if you try to make me mad or jealous, if you treat me bad in front of everyone, I can be a breeze out the window.
If life can’t be this way–lush green grass, all white walls, clean dark hardwoods, no dust anywhere, then…I’ll have none of it.
If we can’t be on the same team, if we can’t make plans and goals, if I can’t be your cattle prod…if you can’t be mine, then what’s the point? What are we doing here?
Juice is sweet and sugary. Babies love juice. They can drink so much. But then it ferments. Wine is good. It’s fun. Good for laughs. Wine becomes vinegar. And that’s the best. Sour and powerful and useful. Potent.
If you don’t love vinegar, go get juice then. Go have wine.
I am vinegar. But not old.
I will never be old.