An open letter to the boy who thinks I’m an easy girl
As a kid, I’ve already had an idea of my own prince charming. I’ve been adept to reading fairytales; I grew up believing that each of us have our own stories. My friends in high school would even tag me as “The hopeless romantic”. As a chronic storyteller of made up love stories, I’ve already had perfect images of how I’ll be able to meet my one true love and what we’ll be like. Of course, these ideologies stopped when I started meeting new people and I began to rationalize things like a mature person. Right now, I’m trying to pretend that I puke over the word “fairy tale”.
It’s always a cliché to say that, “I’m not like most girls”, all of us claimed to be, everyone wanted to be different, unique and desirable – hippie isn’t hippie, anymore. However, what people failed to realize was that I’m not like most girls, because I haven’t yet understood what kind of “girl” I am. A non-conformist, conforming to some conformed standards? Isn’t that confusing?
I am not an easy girl. Albeit, I easily get an emotional breakdown for feeling too much, or that I easily fall in love with people’s eyes, with their passion in it, the way it lights up when they speak, the way they smile, laugh and joke about life, creating an imaginary universe among us. I empathize with people easily. It is during the night that I wish to be loved like how I love people – to feel them with my own hands and shoulders. To jump with them off a cliff, if I needed to. To be able to understand what they feel with my own heart. To lift the heavy burden of loving people too much – even if I always seem indifferent, by pretending I never give a shit. This is what makes me different from all the rest; I always see the good in others, but never in myself.
Shouldn’t you be terrified of me?
When I was younger, I’ve imagined meeting my future lover in a bookstore, who would slowly move towards me a little nervous; as though he has seen Elizabeth Bennet comes to life. I never intend to meet someone I’d probably fall in love with in a bar, drunk and obviously just playing around. All this time I was thinking, how it was so unfair of you to strip me off that dream. I’ve been right in assuming that you aren’t my future lover and you’re never going to be.
Maybe, I am overreacting; it was just a simple normal gesture, hoping I’ll be carried away by it (“Ooh! Kilig”). Damn it. I’m never to be objectified! I am simply writing what I feel is wrong. Girls deserved to be treated the way they needed to, not because we are fragile women in need of men trying to hold us up, but because we are empowered individuals, wanting to feel respected and loved; just like men, like you. It’s not an excuse, if they’ve been drinking too much, looking slutty and cheap (an annoying term used, as if we can be quantified). Even if they look desperate searching for love. No, never give in to it. You shouldn’t always believe what you see, or what I let everyone else believe. I am a messed up girl, you see. I work silently, observing people, and constantly waiting for that moment when someone could finally see through me.
Are you scared now? Well, you should – you should’ve been from the very start.
Like most girls, I’d like to tell my story with passionately bright eyes, smiling with hope that someone could understand; that girls, like me, don’t need flattery words and be swept off by clinging over their shoulders or holding their hands, as easy as you have done (Duh? I’m not someone from Twilight books). I don’t need those. It disgusts me how someone, much more intelligent than I am, who clearly knows what to do, would resort to that kind of doing, like a typical fuccboi.
I remember months ago when my girl best friend was leaving to review in manila, and we were both trying to hide our sepanx over each other, but we couldn’t contain it. Hence, we suddenly hugged each other in public, without caring what other people think of us – that gave me more sparks and goosebumps, than what you ever did. I guess, I just expected to meet the same person with shyness on his face, who told me that I write well and that I should continue doing it, you could’ve acted that way again. It was my bad, I was wrong about you. Oh! I’m sorry to be judging you, as easy as you’ve made me feel.
This is not a love letter. I will never write about you again. I spent most of my time getting answers to, why I never felt good about myself after you tried to cling your arms over my shoulders? Why I hated myself more after that night? Most people wouldn’t understand, and I get them, I don’t even understand myself too.
All I've ever known was that, if this is a love story I wouldn’t be writing like a mad Maria Clara or a typical angry feminist. In some parallel universe, you’d be moving slowly towards me in a bookstore, a little nervous, but brave enough to tell me: “Hi, I’ve read your blog; I’m pleased to meet you”, as if Jane Austen wrote about me. I’ve never appeared to be so much like my blog in real life. I hope, all girls like me, will find someone who can see through the bullshit we sell to the world, and be treated the way we all deserved to. No one shall be treated like an easy girl – not even the hopeless romantic, who drinks too much, and doesn’t believe in fairytales, anymore (that kind of bullshit).
P.S. Congratulations, you made it to my blog!