Funeral For Femininity

Optimistic. Enthusiastic. Driven to tears. Hysterical. Drunk. What a great scenario to what is counted to be an international holiday! But anyway - this is what is real. Without those phony "shopping holiday"-mood, without kissing everyone in the cheek for every fake smile and a couple of congrats that are said only because they should be said. I used to hate that all, and through all these years this hatred hasn't become weaker. Right the opposite.

I hate myself. I've never got it so clear. I hate myself because I love him that much, that I even shut up my pride to stay by his side. No one - never! - told me so many insulting, hurting and disrespectful things like he did. But still, I know for sure, he's the closest person to me. Ever. That's why I swallow this bitter liquid, only not to burst out crying. Even now, when he's spending his time somewhere with someone. Well, if he told me that he does all this only because of usual male jealousy, do I have this right to feel jealous?.. Or is that also only his right, the privilege of being the boss? OK, I'm bitter and sarcastic. But I need to say that.

March, 8th. International Women's day. A cabin in the night subway. A woman in front of me. Disillusioned, drunk - because everyone in her office was drinking, so she took her portion as well, - holding two roses in her wrinkled hands. Two roses. I don't know, maybe she, being drunk, has lost the third one, or just has taken the second flower for her absent colleague, who was absent and couldn't take it herself, - that's basically doesn't matter. The fact is that she's holding only two roses. Like for a funeral. And generally this is funeral. The funeral for femininity. Another couple right by her side. A girl with her paltry-looking miserable boyfriend. They're kissing, the girl is also drunk, and the guy is caressing his crotch while slavering her. And now you still ask me, why I hate this world that much?..

And now that. He led me directly to hysteria, and then told me that he loves me and cares. And it is my fucking fate to believe him, because he really deserves that. And even now, when I silently watch this promiscuity in a metro cabin, he's spending his time somewhere with someone. When I embrace that white rose he gave me as the present for a holiday. Along with the drinking glasses I also received from him - as he explained, to celebrate something with my further "wimpy flames". Enough said.

Maybe I'm chained to this emptiness. Nonexistence. Loneliness. Because I'm ready to forgive all his insults for one single embracement. Fuck. I hate myself.