My whole life I have been told that I could be someone. If I worked at things I would be respected, I would be attractive, strong. I would have a lot to offer.

I have spent my life working at things, working at not despising myself, at liking my smile, at trusting my body. I even look in the mirror and say "wow, you're beautiful" sometimes.

I finished college, despite Muprhy's Law, and got out on my own despite my parents always saying I wasn't strong enough. And then I discovered that everything I'd been told was wrong.

That I have a lot to offer is what I'm told when people want me to offer it to someone else. That I am striking, only makes people ask, "why are you with me?" That I like myself, is only arrogant.

Growing up, I went to a girls' school and what men want was all we talked about.

What men want, and I guess what we all want, is simplicity. Sex we can walk away from, a partner who's eyes will not burn into our heads, someone who cannot finish our sentences or visit us in dreams. What we all want is in the end to be left alone to argue with ourselves.

But I grew up alone, and I learned how to push my way into other people's worlds over and over and over again. I can do it by looking at you, copying you, tasting you. I can hear you or smell you by closing my eyes, and I can wake up in bed and find that I've summoned you or perhaps even conjured you up.

This is all so fascinating, and it makes me all so unique, but I am not forgetteable or easy. You turn away from me, saying that I am more than you can ever bare to lose. I should be awed at your respect.

But I am not. I am awed by two things. I am awed by your cowardice and I am awed that somehow, despite what everyone said, being anything at all gets me nothing, but another opportunity to be strong. We are still Victorians, and none of us particularly care for female force.

Especially me.

Visit the page of Racheline Maltese for more of her writing.