on becoming a flame when you're supposed to stay a spark

we're supposed to be humble. quiet. well-liked. good girls are beloved by all, and even if you're not chasing heaven you can see the appeal of playing the angel.

we have good manners. conversations are minefields and we are suddenly weightless ballerinas; able to somehow dance through any interaction with effortless grace. With smiles on our faces. We are blank canvases of people but, oh, we are so loved.

and for some of us, that's what it's all about. It is about the love. some of us grew up with swiss cheese holes in our hearts, and we can only ever think about how they got there and how we can fill them. oh, and fill them, we do, by spending each moment being The Best and The Sweetest and The The The... anything that will put us first, to anyone, anywhere.

It comes with a price, the Good Girl label. She shouldn't exist; she's boring. pathetic. she is everything to too many people and therefore she is never herself. we become shells, which is no better than the swiss cheese we were left with, and either way, we are empty.

we're supposed to be humble. but what if we're not? what if i stopped saying i "kinda" do things and instead said: i write. i sing. i paint. i am a damn good mother. would it make me unlovable to exude that kind of confidence, the kind of confidence i have always secretly believed was bubbling somewhere deep, deep in the depths of my chest, buried under decades of self-deprecating and self-inflicted bullshit? i can hope that i won't be; i can hope that those who truly love me will stay if i stop playing coy, but to truly live in this life and be who i am, i can't dull my shine just to be loved. 

we're supposed to be saccharine sweet. but what if we're not? we are puppets with good manners; the perfect daughters-in-law. we are well behaved, but only on the surface. we are terrified that at any moment, someone will hug us too hard and we'll burst at the seams, oozing out all our imperfections and shames. our teenage bulimia, our cocaine phases, our dirty poetry. and who will still love us through all that grime? who will stay and say they like us better without the sheen?

some of us are tired of being clean and good. we're dirty, and strong, and capable of things that would blow your mind. we've been taught that women who shine too brightly might hurt someone's eyes, but it's time to let go of that burden. if my rays are too bright, stop looking. i've got people to keep warm.

and the sun and the stars and our mothers nature and earth have never been worried about seeming humble or making people sweat.