Bitch

Sometimes I write something that I’m not sure I want my parents to read, but I feel it needs to be shared anyway. Honest and bare, even if it’s hard to swallow. Uncomfortably candid.

Bitch isn’t really about me. It’s your problem. It’s the way you feel, not the way I am. It’s your reaction, not my action.
Bitch is the title you placed on me because I didn’t meet your expectations. You wanted a version of me that didn’t fit into the mold you’d crafted. In my shattering of the image you twisted, your hurt/fear/anger was reassigned to me.

Here we have an unfortunately common situation:

I can smile and be polite, but that doesn’t mean I have a crush on you. We can go to the beach together, or even out to lunch, but that doesn’t mean I want to go home with you. It may seem surprising, but I can even invite you to come out with my friends and it doesn’t imply I am “down to fuck”.

In fact, there are so many ways I can simply be a decent person and it gets interpreted as something you make up in your mind. Implications of grey created between black and white lines. Condemned by my decorum.

Your expectations
Perceptions of me, shattered
Assigned Title: Bitch
 
I’ll embrace it.