I wrote a letter a few months ago at a moment of clarity, so I wouldn't forget such clarity. Losty, fellow human, I'll share this as a way of showing you just how much I can relate. Sorry about the endless sentences, misspelling and the like... I wrote it in tears one night and just let the flow do the talking. I never polished it. I wanted it to remain as it was when I was writing it. This is the letter.
To whom it may concern:
This is my letter of resignation.
From this day forward I'm in control of my life, my choices, my body, my space. I’m a woman, not your project. I’m a woman, not your servant. I’m a woman, not your rental home.
To whom it may concern:
My body is not your god’s temple. No, you may not request an explanation regarding what I do with it Friday nights after dinner, because you think your god given authority makes you my body’s keeper.
My body is not up for debate within your circle of chosen ones, but when you post it up as the new bomb that incites a spiritual war because of my carnal choices, I tell you with my head help up high, you, oh chosen one, are wasting your time praying for my salvation while you use that as an excuse to be a creeper over every woman's body, including your daughters when you demand explanations about their masturbation habits.
To whom it may concern:
I see your face in every shadow of the night when I walk to my car, walk from my car, carry those bags, pull that cart. I see your face and I want to run. I want to stop and look at your face once again. I see your face in every shadow and I want to scream your truth. I want them all to know the face beneath your mask of sanctity. I want them all to see your face underneath your mask of darling kid. I want them all to see your face underneath your mask of talented wonder. I see your face and I want to kill. I want to kill, kill, kill
The hatred you create when I walk amongst the shadows, I want to kill the fear you produce in every bone that makes this body tremble, I want to kill my head, because it sees your face. I want to smash my head against that window and kill these thoughts, send these thoughts to whom it may concern, so he knows that on this day at this time I'm submitting my resignation to shame. I have nothing underneath my skin that could shame me like your face shames your breath of Bacardi and something else that I haven't traced in all these ghostly years.
To whom it may concern:
I owe you nothing. Your kindness does not mean I must thank you by letting you touch me in ways that make me feel like free tequila shots handed out by strangers. I owe you nothing for standing up for me when they laughed. I owe you nothing for noticing I was crying. I owe you nothing for saying I'm pretty and ignoring my scars. I owe you nothing for donating your attention. I’m a woman, not an essay and when you reach over, touch me like you own me, I see faces in the shadows, I smell Bacardi, I feel small and ashamed, but on this day, I submit my letter of resignation to whom it may concern, and I'm telling you that you should reach into my pants and under my shirt one more time if you want to know the taste of hell on earth.
To whom it may concern:
I’m a woman complete and whole with or without your approval. This means that if my insecurities make you feel that you have power over me, you're oblivious like the voter that said yes to that proposition based on her favorite politician’s demands, without knowing that she's basically signing over your rights. This means that if my confidence offends you, and my personality doesn't meet your standards of ladylike behavior, I'm still a woman complete with a mind of her own, voice of her own, and worth of her own. Look down on me. It won't make a difference when I rest my head to sleep at night knowing I have no chains around my ribs, and I was not made with your skeleton scrap bones.
To whom it may concern:
I had sex before I got married and you, in your arrogant generosity pledged to forgive me. On this day at this time I take your forgiveness and ever so gracefully spread it across your face with all this ironic forgiveness of my own and ever so lovingly inform you that I am absolutely not sorry, and I undoubtedly owe you nothing, and that sex gave me my son and this makes me a fortunate mother who conceived, a mother who changed diapers at dawn, fed a child all these years, never needing your help. What have you to forgive? Turn around and take your forgiveness with you. I'd throw that microphone back at every one of you who stood up that night at that church and full of your abundant pride said, “I forgive you.” I send all that forgiveness back to all of those whom it may concern.
To whom it might concern:
I’m not sorry for not loving you. You come to me carving the floor with your demands. I can't refuse you? I can't hurt you? I should love you, because you love me, even though it took you the sky shattering like the window smashed against my head for you to see me as a human being. You come here and demand my love and compassion. You say I'm cold because I see your tears and say nothing. You describe me as a robotic creature that holds grudges, but feels nothing, and dresses in pride as if that was the last uniform color left on the shelf. Look at me and notice I know where I'm standing and what I'm saying. My love is not a charity donation, it is not a token of good will, it is not my obligation, and it is not something I can simply choose to feel. You stab my chest with relentless abandonment, expect a loveless return.
To whom it may concern:
This is my letter of resignation!
I will no longer be serving your will. That you are family means nothing. That my thoughts offend you means nothing. That you think I have wounds to heal in order to be fixed and go back to your idea of right, means nothing.
If this letter concerns you, I suggest you listen well. I'm killing every piece of me that holds on to your abuse. I wasted time dreaming of ropes tight around my neck, hanging from those shattered skies like windows to my broken life, but on this day at this time, I'm resigning from the abuse that I inflict upon myself. I'm resigning from the part of me that finds it painful to remember to breathe. I bring death upon those shadows, those faces, the victimization of the oppressors. Today I throw these words out there like mosquitos carrying disease, so it bites every person that it may concern and travels through their body making it irretrievable that on this day, at this time, I'll hold You in contempt if you try to sit me down.
This is my announcement and warning to all those faces in all those shadows, ropes, and platforms, and to all the hands and voices of whom it might concern.
To whom it may concern:
This is my letter of resignation.
From this day forward I'm in control of my life, my choices, my body, my space. I’m a woman, not your project. I’m a woman, not your servant. I’m a woman, not your rental home.
To whom it may concern:
My body is not your god’s temple. No, you may not request an explanation regarding what I do with it Friday nights after dinner, because you think your god given authority makes you my body’s keeper.
My body is not up for debate within your circle of chosen ones, but when you post it up as the new bomb that incites a spiritual war because of my carnal choices, I tell you with my head help up high, you, oh chosen one, are wasting your time praying for my salvation while you use that as an excuse to be a creeper over every woman's body, including your daughters when you demand explanations about their masturbation habits.
To whom it may concern:
I see your face in every shadow of the night when I walk to my car, walk from my car, carry those bags, pull that cart. I see your face and I want to run. I want to stop and look at your face once again. I see your face in every shadow and I want to scream your truth. I want them all to know the face beneath your mask of sanctity. I want them all to see your face underneath your mask of darling kid. I want them all to see your face underneath your mask of talented wonder. I see your face and I want to kill. I want to kill, kill, kill
The hatred you create when I walk amongst the shadows, I want to kill the fear you produce in every bone that makes this body tremble, I want to kill my head, because it sees your face. I want to smash my head against that window and kill these thoughts, send these thoughts to whom it may concern, so he knows that on this day at this time I'm submitting my resignation to shame. I have nothing underneath my skin that could shame me like your face shames your breath of Bacardi and something else that I haven't traced in all these ghostly years.
To whom it may concern:
I owe you nothing. Your kindness does not mean I must thank you by letting you touch me in ways that make me feel like free tequila shots handed out by strangers. I owe you nothing for standing up for me when they laughed. I owe you nothing for noticing I was crying. I owe you nothing for saying I'm pretty and ignoring my scars. I owe you nothing for donating your attention. I’m a woman, not an essay and when you reach over, touch me like you own me, I see faces in the shadows, I smell Bacardi, I feel small and ashamed, but on this day, I submit my letter of resignation to whom it may concern, and I'm telling you that you should reach into my pants and under my shirt one more time if you want to know the taste of hell on earth.
To whom it may concern:
I’m a woman complete and whole with or without your approval. This means that if my insecurities make you feel that you have power over me, you're oblivious like the voter that said yes to that proposition based on her favorite politician’s demands, without knowing that she's basically signing over your rights. This means that if my confidence offends you, and my personality doesn't meet your standards of ladylike behavior, I'm still a woman complete with a mind of her own, voice of her own, and worth of her own. Look down on me. It won't make a difference when I rest my head to sleep at night knowing I have no chains around my ribs, and I was not made with your skeleton scrap bones.
To whom it may concern:
I had sex before I got married and you, in your arrogant generosity pledged to forgive me. On this day at this time I take your forgiveness and ever so gracefully spread it across your face with all this ironic forgiveness of my own and ever so lovingly inform you that I am absolutely not sorry, and I undoubtedly owe you nothing, and that sex gave me my son and this makes me a fortunate mother who conceived, a mother who changed diapers at dawn, fed a child all these years, never needing your help. What have you to forgive? Turn around and take your forgiveness with you. I'd throw that microphone back at every one of you who stood up that night at that church and full of your abundant pride said, “I forgive you.” I send all that forgiveness back to all of those whom it may concern.
To whom it might concern:
I’m not sorry for not loving you. You come to me carving the floor with your demands. I can't refuse you? I can't hurt you? I should love you, because you love me, even though it took you the sky shattering like the window smashed against my head for you to see me as a human being. You come here and demand my love and compassion. You say I'm cold because I see your tears and say nothing. You describe me as a robotic creature that holds grudges, but feels nothing, and dresses in pride as if that was the last uniform color left on the shelf. Look at me and notice I know where I'm standing and what I'm saying. My love is not a charity donation, it is not a token of good will, it is not my obligation, and it is not something I can simply choose to feel. You stab my chest with relentless abandonment, expect a loveless return.
To whom it may concern:
This is my letter of resignation!
I will no longer be serving your will. That you are family means nothing. That my thoughts offend you means nothing. That you think I have wounds to heal in order to be fixed and go back to your idea of right, means nothing.
If this letter concerns you, I suggest you listen well. I'm killing every piece of me that holds on to your abuse. I wasted time dreaming of ropes tight around my neck, hanging from those shattered skies like windows to my broken life, but on this day at this time, I'm resigning from the abuse that I inflict upon myself. I'm resigning from the part of me that finds it painful to remember to breathe. I bring death upon those shadows, those faces, the victimization of the oppressors. Today I throw these words out there like mosquitos carrying disease, so it bites every person that it may concern and travels through their body making it irretrievable that on this day, at this time, I'll hold You in contempt if you try to sit me down.
This is my announcement and warning to all those faces in all those shadows, ropes, and platforms, and to all the hands and voices of whom it might concern.
"Hipster is what happens when young hot people do what old ladies do." -Exian