Song: Stretch Marks Read by Peter Seaton-Clark
Viewed: 40 - Published at: 3 years ago
Artist: Love, The Twains
Year: 2021Viewed: 40 - Published at: 3 years ago
If my body remembered what my mind pointlessly, yet relentlessly hopes to forget, there would be stretch marks and crouch marks all over it
One crouch mark would grace my skin for every time I bowed my head or served a man I ought not to have served.Time and again, I ended up saying “No, you’re probably right. Perhaps it’s just me!“, when I knew very well that it wasn’t. For every cognitive dissonance force-fed to me by someone too self-serving and/or oblivious to distinguish between their self-image and actual behaviour. (Leaving me with the emotional labor of discerning between the two, while pretending I couldn’t.)
For every hour of sleep I sacrificed, trying to make an inept man feel less unkind. There seems to be a rather unique form of resentment in the eyes of a man who is certain he deserves better feedback
If my body remembered what my mind pointlessly yet relentlessly hopes to forget, stretch marks would cover me, from my neck to my heels. For every social event prior to which I spent too much time in front of a mirror, trying to finally become beautiful enough that the man would be nice to me in front of his friends
Said friends were neither kind nor emotionally well adjusted themselves, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have to try my hardest every single time, so I guess… oh, never mind
A thousand stretch marks would have lined my skin that night I overstretched my spine well enough to receive the approval and subsequent affection I had been so desperatley striving for. It resulted in the sobering, though perhaps foreseeable, realization: “Oh shit, this isn’t actually love, is it?“
If my mind remembered what my body pointlessly, yet relentlessly hopes to forget, I might never crouch nor stretch, ever again
One crouch mark would grace my skin for every time I bowed my head or served a man I ought not to have served.Time and again, I ended up saying “No, you’re probably right. Perhaps it’s just me!“, when I knew very well that it wasn’t. For every cognitive dissonance force-fed to me by someone too self-serving and/or oblivious to distinguish between their self-image and actual behaviour. (Leaving me with the emotional labor of discerning between the two, while pretending I couldn’t.)
For every hour of sleep I sacrificed, trying to make an inept man feel less unkind. There seems to be a rather unique form of resentment in the eyes of a man who is certain he deserves better feedback
If my body remembered what my mind pointlessly yet relentlessly hopes to forget, stretch marks would cover me, from my neck to my heels. For every social event prior to which I spent too much time in front of a mirror, trying to finally become beautiful enough that the man would be nice to me in front of his friends
Said friends were neither kind nor emotionally well adjusted themselves, but that didn’t mean I didn’t have to try my hardest every single time, so I guess… oh, never mind
A thousand stretch marks would have lined my skin that night I overstretched my spine well enough to receive the approval and subsequent affection I had been so desperatley striving for. It resulted in the sobering, though perhaps foreseeable, realization: “Oh shit, this isn’t actually love, is it?“
If my mind remembered what my body pointlessly, yet relentlessly hopes to forget, I might never crouch nor stretch, ever again
( Love, The Twains )
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