Sequel to Without Mature Trees

I have to stop reading e. e. cummings


Alright, I can’t lie anymore.

Not with my mouth. Not with my body. Not with my thoughts.

Ya. That’s right. I haven’t been 100% honest about who I love or what I’ve endured in my dreams.

I write all these dear future husband letters but they double as dear john letters.

Get it?

Here’s a fun fact: men who objectify women can’t tell the difference between body language that mirrors their thoughts and body language that originates in the minds of those they objectify.

This morning I was holding my umbrella suggestively. Yup, you guessed right. I was thinking sexual thoughts about my umbrella.

In the minds of those who were thinking about me, a projected version of me that I have zero control over was doing things to their body parts, well, projections of their parts.

Sounds pretty gross when I put it that way. Not sexy at all. I mean, everyone wants a fully active participant. Well, almost everyone. I don’t volunteer.

Did we all hear that? No thank you. A very definitive get out and go.

Here’s something that I hope will blow their minds. If you ‘know’ me through my avi and my fiction, you don’t know me.

What you know is a projection of me. A projection from your own subconscious. It’s a version of every woman you’ve ever loved or hated, been loved by and rejected by all rolled up into one outfit you dressed me in. The blank slate you projected over my true self.

For all intents and purposes, you’re fucking yourself. And you’ve even ruined the childish pleasure I once took in telling assholes to go fuck themselves. Because I know what that means to some now.

I’m not a baseball glove.

And, deep down somewhere in a recess you haven’t explored because it would inconveniently rip out the floor you spent so much money and time creating, you want it this way. I can’t say why. That’s your job to go down there. Not mine.

I don’t love you. But you knew that. You never wanted me to love you. You wanted some part of me to believe that I loved you so I would let you into my home when you knocked on the door.

Because for some of you, it’s more exciting when you believe at least a part of my mind is connecting to yours. But no thank you.

I’ve only been asked to leave through a window once in my whole life. And I told myself it would never happen again because it made me feel humiliated.

And hey, guess what else? When you come to me masked, wearing borrowed clothes, whether it’s because you don’t truly believe your clothes are shiny enough or it’s because you want to trick me, you invite others to do the same.

I have a son. He’s just a toddler most days and I don’t believe in corporal punishment. I believe in allowing his spirit to shine through. I believe in encouraging his voice. I’m trying very hard to help him grow into the man I know he can eventually be.

And, the fact that he’s precocious complicates things, because he sees the way you treat me and he believes this is the way that I deserve to be treated.

He’s tall for his age and he has a loud mean streak. His mean words echo. And sometimes the thing that scares me most is the fact that he has no feelings. When he’s with me, I feel nothing at all. Every parent has had times when we want to lock ourselves in our room and plug our headphones in and take a break from the screaming and the kicking on our door.

But this kid, this son of mine who isn’t my son at all, is like Patrick Swayze in Ghost. Henry the Eighth he is he is. It can be exhausting. Sometimes I think that’s the point. When I’m tired I don’t cook Brussels sprouts and I know that if I microwave peas, he’d just feed them to our cat.

But he has nobody else. I mean, I’m his mom now. His mom asked me to take care of him before she died. It was all very tragic and I don’t want his life to be tragic.

Before she died she told me that his brain is like a sponge, that he picks up on everything and he’s smart, he can pick up anything and teach himself.

She was right. It wasn’t just something a mom says about her kid.

He’s very good at learning through osmosis. I swear he’s already picked my brain and learned everything there is to know about social norms and acceptable behaviour that is in there.

So when this club of grown ass men take it upon themselves to slip into my life through my avi and my words and my unmet needs, he sees that.

He learns to treat me with no respect as I’m being objectified, and it sucks because I have no control over what other people do.

How am I supposed to walk away from something I don’t know is happening?

What am I supposed to visualize unless I know who is doing it? Should I just picture a bunch of sloped-foreheads with lizard tails coming out of the bottom of their skulls on stick figures or maybe on scarecrows or tin men?

And now I see it. Now I see them walking away.

But I’m a mom. I’m going to see where they’re headed. Because other unsuspecting humans who are about to become objectified need to know what black hole vortex they are about to be sucked into.

Isn’t that what everyone does? No?

Okay. But that’s not me. I didn’t come to this hell to learn lessons and keep them to myself like a toddler afraid to share, afraid he won’t get to keep anything for himself.

Every fucking line was written for you. That’s where you fit into this story.

I wanted you to know me. And in doing so, I inadvertently shared too much of myself with a bunch of toads.

But it was meant to be this way, I’m sure of it. I just don’t know why yet.

Author: tendrilwise

Hi, I have a diploma in Journalism, I've published a novel, and I am currently studying psychology. My odd way of viewing the world either gets me kicked out of parties or invited to them. Jenn McKay

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