Dear Me

Dear Me:

Who are you really? Does the snap of your tongue make you what you are? The size of your hips, your lips?

“You have the most gorgeous mouth a man once said to me”. “I wonder what he’ll think when he hears what comes out of it? I thought silently to myself with a smile. The one where one corner turns up and my eyes flash and flutter.

A dear, sweet man once made me a leather bikini. I didn’t wear it. I don’t like my men to dress me, even if it was a nice piece of art.

My lover of four years (is it five?) thought he knew me. He didn’t. If he did he wouldn’t have believed himself.

I think, ultimately, I am “free”. If not physically then I feel that way in my mind. Answerable to no man. I don’t feel encapsulated. A kind of mental butterflyness. That has to count for something.