No one’s loved me yet. Or at least, not to my knowledge. My idea of love has always been that romantic, fairytale, sweep-you-off-your-feet kind of mush. I grew up envying the little girls who got to go on the swings first because the little boys in front of the line had a crush on them. I’ve always had to wait my turn because no one’s liked me more than they liked to have a go on the slides at the playground.
I don’t even really care that much about “pretty privilege.” Anyway, I’ve always made it just fine by clawing my way through life. But there are days when it’s just so obviously felt, and there’s no denying who is privileged and who is not. Sometimes, it’s just easy to feel like we’re just a line of canned peaches at the grocery shelf, and those that are left untaken are those that aren’t good enough. It’s especially so at this age. After all these years, how come no one’s ever liked me enough even to just hesitantly pick me off the display and read the label to find out more? I sometimes ask myself if I’m doing anything wrong.
But I’m not a piece of commodity lying around at the grocery store. I hate that I feel this way, just because girls my age are expected to be someone’s girlfriend, wife, partner…mother. How are we supposed to be someone’s anything before we even get to be someone for ourselves?
(I say this as I long to be held close by loving arms. I might have completely missed the point.)
Haraya malaya 