women
-PJ Ryans
there are so many awful things about beautiful women.
heart breakingly swoon inducing
short of breath making girls.
the ones with the hair tempered just right
tied up and bound hairstyles or those in [premeditated] disarray
molested and disheveled so beautifully by winter hats on the train.
i stare.
i cannot look away.
they don't look, not even a glance, and my mind faints in pain.
all productive thoughts cease and turn to the very singularity that cannot be ignored for another therapy session
that it kills your spirit that you cannot be good enough the be with them
never just right in their so specific idea of the perfect man.
you are a square peg to their unattainable and ode lauding hole.
but the most depressing part is when they notice you
a glance
a notification
perhaps even a vague, distant and forced smile.
that's when reality sets in
reality that cannot go unspoken for another therapy session
the very thought of being with them.
making love to them
waking up next to them
meeting all their insipid friends and robotic, brain-dead parents
having this thing that you need in your life like nothing else
berate you
and tell you in exacting ways how you don't live up
to standards you know nothing of
having fight after fight after fight over something thats insignificance can only be further diminished by the fact that in 80 years none of it will mean a thing.
two rotting corpses an infinite dimensional distance away from each other.
it's enough to give your stoney blank expression
the one saved specifically for public transportation
a jolt into an expression
even a sneer or worse.
but then it's all over.
those eyes
those legs
those hips hidden beneath a thick jacket
those beautiful heartbreaking eyes
that hair you pine for
to let on pillows that will only ever exist in imagination
gets up
floats to the door
the skirts
the ever present bag
and walks out of the car
left or right
she goes
with not one look
with not one instance of acknowledgment
that you ever graced her visage with the adoration and disgust that will exude from your pen and fester in your mind the whole time you sit at this blessed bar
drowning over and over and over again.
there are so many awful things about beautiful women.
heart breakingly swoon inducing
short of breath making girls.
the ones with the hair tempered just right
tied up and bound hairstyles or those in [premeditated] disarray
molested and disheveled so beautifully by winter hats on the train.
i stare.
i cannot look away.
they don't look, not even a glance, and my mind faints in pain.
all productive thoughts cease and turn to the very singularity that cannot be ignored for another therapy session
that it kills your spirit that you cannot be good enough the be with them
never just right in their so specific idea of the perfect man.
you are a square peg to their unattainable and ode lauding hole.
but the most depressing part is when they notice you
a glance
a notification
perhaps even a vague, distant and forced smile.
that's when reality sets in
reality that cannot go unspoken for another therapy session
the very thought of being with them.
making love to them
waking up next to them
meeting all their insipid friends and robotic, brain-dead parents
having this thing that you need in your life like nothing else
berate you
and tell you in exacting ways how you don't live up
to standards you know nothing of
having fight after fight after fight over something thats insignificance can only be further diminished by the fact that in 80 years none of it will mean a thing.
two rotting corpses an infinite dimensional distance away from each other.
it's enough to give your stoney blank expression
the one saved specifically for public transportation
a jolt into an expression
even a sneer or worse.
but then it's all over.
those eyes
those legs
those hips hidden beneath a thick jacket
those beautiful heartbreaking eyes
that hair you pine for
to let on pillows that will only ever exist in imagination
gets up
floats to the door
the skirts
the ever present bag
and walks out of the car
left or right
she goes
with not one look
with not one instance of acknowledgment
that you ever graced her visage with the adoration and disgust that will exude from your pen and fester in your mind the whole time you sit at this blessed bar
drowning over and over and over again.
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