Waiting On Men

I have spent entirely too much of my life waiting on men. Holding my breath, pausing me, waiting for one to magically breath me into existence. 

It started when I was five and men said they’d show and then they disappeared into thin air. Vanishing me out of existence. 

It started with me watching every car that drove down our small country road, holding my breath to see if it was the man I was waiting on.  Not being seen or existing. The desperation and tightness of that waiting never went away. It took up residence in my gut. It took up residence in my soul. 

It’s continues today with me starting at my phone, gripping the ever loving shit out of it, willing a text to appear and locations to change and  for him to move and come back to me. 

I am waiting for my phone to revolt. I am expecting it to tell me to stop and let the fuck go. I am waiting for my phone to say, “um, we are going to suggest you calm down. Here watch nextfix.”

I want to let go of this sand that I am grasping so fucking hard. I want to open my hand and shake it out and wash it with some serious silk wood like shower action. However the idea of letting go of this grip feels like letting go of my self, my world and my life but fuck I want to stop waiting on men.  I want to breathe myself into existence.