How many times do I have to twist and turn, flex and fight. Compromise. Keep quiet. Stay calm and grip tightly onto a fragile peace.
My appearance, my skills, my life, my choices, my curtains, my boots – all vulnerable to critique. When are those comments mine to own? To crush. When can I destroy them? Out loud.
If I own them, divulge them, am I breaking egg shells that aren’t mine to break.Who will put them together again? Is there a glue strong enough.
Is there a boot strong enough to crack them in the first place?
Why is there only one person in all of this. A solo dance that treads on so many toes. All I can do is break and mend, break and mend. Keep quiet, compliant. Move to the waltz, keep to the pace, avoid the feet. No room to freestyle.
But you dance to your own tune. Your own rules.
I leave the dance floor. Break away. Am I becoming you? I need someone to tell me….my appearance, my skills, my life, my choices, my curtains, my boots – they’re all OK. Good, in fact. But there’s a heavy, nasty, nagging doubt….
You tipped the see-saw down. Now I tip it down myself….I need somebody else to hold it up for me. After all, you told me I hadn’t the strength.