The lights were soft on you, making all of your edges fade. I wanted to be close to you, but a wooden table separated us. I wanted to say all of the things I had on my mind. Like how handsome you looked or how much I felt for you or how when you smiled I couldn't help but smile too. That you were one of the most genuine people I had ever met.
But I stayed silent, because usually I couldn't find a way to express my feelings. Instead I smiled, and took another chip from the bowl we were sharing.
I'm sick of people telling me what I can and can not do. How do you know my limits? How do you know where I'll go, or where I have come from? How do you know how hard I can work? I can become whatever I want, from a lawyer to a policewoman to an artist. Anything.
I can't stand that sexism is still tolerated and accepted within our daily lives. When you go into class and hear your male teacher exclaiming not how wonderful an actress Wonder Women is, but how hot she is, it gets under your skin. It makes my skin crawl. Does anyone have any filters anymore? Women are glorifed for their bodies, and girls are starving themselves all the time. For what? To be accepted.
That brings me to another thing that makes me angry: The need to be accepted by the world. Why? What's the need? The world has such twisted views...why listen to that? It won't bring you happiness anyway.
The note was placed on the blue kitchen counter top, folded in a haphazard way, the edges not lined up. The paper was crinkled, seemingly used, like an afterthought. I gently reached out and took it from its perched place into my palms, hoping it wasn't what I thought it was.
It was, of course.
A note from you. I held my breath as I took each fold and opened your words up, smoothing the creases against the counter. I became anxious, wanting every wrinkle to be gone. This was your gift to me, why should it have these markings all over it, distorting your beautiful words, each written by your hand.
I laid the paper in front of me, and let my weight be carried by my hands gripping onto the edge of counter, my knuckles white and red all at the same time. I gazed at this piece of paper, with three simple lines upon it:
Don't want you to think of this as some cliché of any kind, so I'll keep it simple.