Once, when I was sixteen, my father woke up early and toasted Engligh muffins for me.
But he burned them.
He always burned everything; Leaving the ashes of his mistakes trailing behind him for someone to clean, and my fingers were singed from all the times I had to sweep his fires under the rug.
He had even spread cream cheese on top, though most of it was so hardened that it cut the side of my mouth when I bit into it. Crisped crumbs sprinkled down onto my shirt and I plastered a smile on my face as I winced because I was so used to pretending things were good even when they were hurting me.
My father had a shit-eating grin on face that was so foreign that I started to choke up (not sure if it was the burnt toast lodged in my throat or that empathetic, emphasis on the pathetic, nature I cursed God for bestowing upon me)
He was so fucking happy for one fucking minute.
And despite feeling lonley in his presence, despite feeling invisible, confused, fearful, angry-
I had never loved him more.
No one ever did special things for me; especially not men.
How kind of my father- though he left and he left- what other man would do something so nice for a girl like me (one who was never chosen)
So I’d spend many years accepting English-muffin-crumbs of love, from others just like him.
That meal taught me to feast on ashes and call it love.
One time. Two times. Even a a third time.
Until I was left starving.
Until I refused to accept it.
I refused to fill the stomach of another with a five course meal of beauty, brilliance, thoughtfulness, depth and authenticity with only scraps in return.
I cannot offer high-end meals to those who are used to drive-thru, and I cannot lower my value to accommodate those who will never rise to meet me on the rooftops because they are comfortable sitting in the parking lots.
I took my thoughtfulness, my loyalty, my depth, my support, my magnetic star, my beauty, devotion and love-and put it all back in my own cupboards.
I took my creativity, my voice, my authenticity and sweet vulnerability, packed it in Tupperware and stacked it on my own countertops.
I took my body-this delicious, beautiful fruit-and decided to save it for someone who earned a VIP invitation to my table.
I learned.
I finally learned.
How to feed myself
parallellines.blog 