She loves SAW for a good cozy time. If it wasn’t for myself loving horror, I might be surprised that this tiny girl of a cutesy woman loves gore.

I tell her I don’t like to watch them alone. Especially those with ghosts in them. She says she’s not scared of ghosts; you can see the make-up, so it’s not real. But humans? Those are scary. I looked surprised, so she pressed on.

“Ghost aren’t real, she says with great conviction. But men are, even if they don’t wear make-up, you don’t know the inside. Inside they can be….” she trails of, concentrated on her task.

“Evil?”

I ask.

“Yeah, evil….Out there” she gestures to the street. “It’s not save.”

“From men?”

“Yeah. Many girls…friends I know are, uhm hmm, can’t say the word.”

“Raped?”

She nods, turning her eyes to her work. “Yeah many girls are raped. My neighborhood; not safe. Busses; not safe. That’s why we have to go home early and quick.”

________

This is a conversation with my nail technician in Sanchuang, Yangon, Myanmar.

#rape #unsafe #women #womensrights #conversation

Most of the time, almost always, I feel like a sturdy tin bucket. Placed solidly on the ground, with little drips of life coming down everyday.

But as time goes on the bucket fills, and I become more and more something else, untill I am a tall precarious vase on a shaky wooden table, filled to the brim with the water.

As a vase I look clean and polished, but in truth I wobble; my foundation unsteady.

Eventually a flower will be stuck into the vase, and it is then, with this added weight, that I tumble over, spilling water and heavy flowers all over the nice polished floors.

What a mess I’ve become. Who will clean this shattered vase, and water?

These millions of fragile fragments of myself, submerged.

How difficult the situation has become.

If only I had tumbled when I was still a bucket on the ground.

__________________________________________________

#Prose #fragile

You know, like that take out, or a forgotten extra boiled egg. Doesn’t do any favours to food…it spoils.

Best attempt I could make at a joke. But still literally watching people I’d consider friends have fun without me, looking at pictures wondering why I’m not there. Just imagining running into some of them, as I have in the past, being asked if or why not I wasn’t there, and just having to go

”Well, I wasn’t invited.”

Their horror stricken face at their own social fou par. The awkwardness that ensues.

The feeling of seeing myself left out feels pretty much like an icey hammer to the chest. It’s almost enough to make me cry.

”But if I should feel bitter about any time that I’m left out, I’d be a pretty horrible person by now right?” – sly smile, evil glint in my eye.

I think of the favours I have in stock for those people…my friends. And ice grips me again. I wanna retract it all. No coffee dates. No shared notes. No calls. I don’t have time to be a friend to others who aren’t to me. Well, time I have. Cause I’m sitting at home alone on a Saturday night. But the sentiment is the same.

I’m not a masochist. I don’t enjoy pain. And this right here is painful. Even though I look at the pictures twice. And wanting more. Wanting to see why I don’t fit into the image.

Don’t they like me? Am I too fat or ugly or annoying to fit in?

I breath harshly in through my nose.

Really, I need to centre myself. Remember it doesn’t matter. Or even if it does I can’t change their perception of me. Focus on people who are able to like me back. I understand them about as well as I understand the ones that apparently don’t. So I should just enjoy it. Save my favours for those people.

The stone in my throat lessens.

I know not why. And it’s not okay, but it has to be, cause that’s enough. Refocus on my happiness, and own enjoyment. My night was fine until that picture popped up. I shouldn’t compare my fineness towards someone else’s.

Deep breath.

And focus forward

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#prose #streamofconsciousness #leftout #feelings