I am not my own person.
Pieces of others have built me up; I am some of this man’s hobby, some of this interaction at the supermarket, some of this failed marriage. I am Lisa to every Gary and Wyatt. Others’ experiences have built my expectations; I fill the gaps of what others are looking for and don’t think about what I could be instead.
What do you want from a woman? That could be me. I could fulfill your expectations and continue to change my own. Give me your list and I’ll check it off. Show me what you need and I’ll box myself in to fit your narrative. I exist for you.
But I’ve played this game before. I become everything you wanted, your perfect mold of a woman most desired…and then the box can’t contain me anymore. I step out of your guidelines and become your irritation, a marred perfection of what you thought you had built.
But you never built me. You were one more who thought they were working with unmarked clay. Your hands created lines that crossed ones that were left by the men I disappointed before.
In becoming my own person, I become rogue; you watch me slowly destroy what you set as tacit rules for your love and acceptance. Once I step out of your box, you find it easy to leave, just as they did.
So once again, I become cluttered with more of what someone else expected. I am not my own person.
What do you want from a woman? That could be me.
