Some femmes are dominant and some butches are submissive. Some men have vaginas and some women have penises. Sometimes what you call a clit is called a dick by it’s owner, and sometimes a dick is really a clit. Some straight men want to be penetrated and some straight women want to do it. Sometimes people aren’t men or women at all and sometimes genitals aren’t a black and white issue. Sometimes people are different to you, and always, we need to accept this.
Trying to practice the art of forgiveness, acceptance, letting go and welcoming the unknown is a hard, and scary lifestyle. But I know ultimately I’ll be in a better mindset and healing will finally take place and seriously, there should be no argument against that.
But I know what lies in my head is a lot of doubt, resentment and my need to build walls. These walls never actually helped me, but I grew familiar and secure each time I found it necessary to keep them.
Despite all this, I need to allow myself to feel all these things and keep hurting but keep loving and realize there is strength in weakness. Accepting and embracing one’s own weakness and in turn allowing yourself to improve from that — that takes strength.
My temptation tells me to push away and shut out anything that hurts or makes me uncomfortable. I hurt people because I’m tired of hurting. So I excuse my shitty behavior thinking “well, my pain needs to go somewhere” when in reality it still only hurts me. I don’t want to look weak by forgiving people and I don’t want to give in because then I feel like I’m at a loss. That I’m the one who’s always losing.
Then I have to take a step back and realize it’s not about winning or losing. But then what is it about? I don’t want to forgive because that means I have to let it go but I never let it go. I never let a shitty remark go. I never let a shitty decision go. I never let shitty people go. Why would I want them to be off the hook? I want them to hurt just as much as they hurt me.
And then I look at myself — it becomes hard to. And that’s not me. I don’t want vengeance. I don’t want deceit. I just want something to cancel out the pain.
If poets often commit suicide, it is not because their poems are bad but because they are good. Whoever heard of a bad poet committing suicide? The reader is only a little better off. The exhilaration of a good poem lasts twenty minutes, an hour at most.
Unlike the scientist, the artist has reentry problems that are frequent and catastrophic.