Here's the thing: I don't trust you.
In the moral breakdown of misogyny, I'm genetically wired to recognize that glint in your eye; to acknowledge the reasons behind your every move. It's not paranoia, it's recognition: Just maybe I would do the same thing, if I were you and the roles were reversed. But they're not. And you are no mystery to me.
This is not an open letter to the woman/women that I hold bitter conversations with, in my innermost thoughts. No, this is a letter to you. Even if you haven't walked into the bar (yet), jealously tagged your ex-in old pictures now that he's settling down, or attempted to rekindle a relationship that I'm gladly carrying the extinguisher for. For as long as there is more than one, there will always be "the other woman." Let's get one thing straight: I am not her.
In the history of woman's suffrage, every woman has assured herself that she is not "other" but "only" or subsequently "more" than those surrounding her. Most women don't seek to make enemies, either. I, for example, turn my radar off, until it beeps too loudly to ignore.
By then, however, it's too late. If we ignore the clues, we remain clueless.
In elementary school they teach us the Golden Rule: "Treat people the way you want to be treated." That mantra was repeated over PA systems and in large assembly halls for the majority of my formative years. Maybe you just weren't listening. So let me tell you how I want to be treated.
I want you to walk away.
I want you to bite your tongue- to know there is nothing worth saying and nothing good that comes from loose lips.
I want you to harness your dignity.
I want you to like yourself. Keep you legs closed.
Because at the end of the day, that's the only way anybody wins.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.