There are no fairytale endings for girls like us. Only whispered apologies to broken hearts in the middle of the night. Only places inside of us men use as pit stops on the way to something better. Never staying, never saying why. You will have to rain moving on down your spine. Teach your lungs to breathe without heaving out metaphors. You will have to apologize to your bones for wanting more.
There are no fairytale endings for girls like us. Only remnants of men who look at us like a question mark. Something that’s not for them to answer, not for them to stay and find out why our chests are heavy with unsaid words. We are only a collection of stolen moments and “Well I’m here so I might as well do it”. Toni Morison’s third beer glass, or maybe the fourth, because in some ways it hurts.
“She was the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it’s there, because it can’t hurt, and because what difference does it make?” – Toni Morrison