the prettier I am, the angrier the men are.  one of the men who lives here said to my spouse, “you need to share,” pertaining to me.  when I wear tank tops, my shoulders seem to hurt him.  I feel sad like I should wear a potato sack for clothes, like do you really need me to be unattractive to you for you to feel comfortable?  what’s so harmful about a breast.

the situation has been brewing for a while.  it’s become more clear to me lately.  these guys, most days, I am the only woman who is nice to them.  maybe the only person at all, who is nice to them.

a charming lady to smile and ask how they are?  it must be a treat.  but I wish my prettiness didn’t activate this misogyny.  if their old sexual bullshit is going, I shouldn’t suffer for that.  but they feel undesirable and no prospects, so I’m a source of frustration.

it hurts to feel the lack of balance.  this used to be my favorite place in the world.  I know things can change.  if someone dies, or someone new comes.

the emotional labor I do for these guys is hard, but if they’re going to have a seething anger that I’m pretty and my spouse is getting sex and they aren’t, that’s not comfortable.  it was so good to be elsewhere for a few days, to rest that part of me.  but I go away and realize all this stuff that’s hard to realize.


he looked away from me yesterday, when I was loading laundry.  I was wearing a tank top that must have showed too much breast.  what’s the big deal.  he probably sucked on one as a baby, and as an adult in a different way.

but it’s my body.  do I really need to hide it for his comfort?  what about my comfort?  there’s so much work to do in this world, and I don’t feel like hiding myself, so men who are emotionally clueless can be more comfortable.

I’ve changed a lot these past few years.  I like how I change, but I can see how I’m further away from repression.  the freedom I found when my mom died feels like the sweetest thing in the world.  it’s the only thing than can console me from losing her.  it’s the only good coming from her death, so why can’t I enjoy it.


I’m a moral, kind, centered person.  I’m not using my sexuality to hurt anyone.  but they can’t handle me having even a body!  and it’s like my childhood all over again, so much effort, not to tempt men to rape me.  why do I have to dance around that?  boys and men need to handle that, not girls and women.

introspection, self-knowledge, emotional intelligence, honesty all seem too much to ask.  the old dog didn’t learn it and never will.  but they’re the ones who can only talk about the weather, a car accident down the street, sports, or food.  it’s not my fault they are totally lacking ability to talk about sexual truths or even social truths.

but I’m suffering for it.  well, we all are.  they’re 65, not 95.  they could do so much–so much in this world, to learn and feel.  they act half-dead already.  they have poverty mentality.

it’s a breast, not a bomb.  my breasts are to nurture, heal, please, comfort, just be.  if my breasts hurt someone, he did that, not me.  my breasts are innocent.  my body is not a harmful place.

I contorted myself for 40 years so clueless asshats didn’t need to be uncomfortable because they wouldn’t face their own balls.  I’m blamed for having breasts, but who is blaming them for having desire to violate me?


my spouse said I am blossoming.  I like to think of myself as a flower.  I would be safer.

By Nest

Curious, disabled Earth Goddess, telling the truth.

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