Manic Pixie Dream Girl: An Era ♡ poetry & prose

will be

I'm ending this collection here.

I've grown up always being stereo-typed and put in boxes, because that is all we, as humans, know how to do in order to build enough structure within ourselves to function. We rely on associations and order. I've never done anything in order. I've never understood anybody else's sense of order. I've been told I do everything backwards. 

Due to my short hair, regulated by the fact that I hate feeling my hair on my skin and either need it up or cut off, I am seen as rebellious for keeping it so short. Then, wow, I began dying it from such an early age. I must be fatherless.

Rarely ever choosing to sit still or stay in one place, I must have a tragic backstory: a difficult home life, mommy issues, did not receive enough affection growing up, unable to stay grounded and told I have a lack of cohesive identity.

I have boobs and big eyes. I have skin that stays clean and smells okay. I am something that men want, supposedly, until they have it, because I am never who they thought I was supposed to be to them. I am my own person. I have never understood what normal was ever supposed to be, because 'normal' suggests there are rules that I simply could not understand, because if there is a 'normal', then I know I am not it, because I am so much more than one word and would prefer not to be defined by anyone other than myself. 

Statistics, tests, the men in my life, the family I've been bonded to and the family I've bonded with, have all dictated to me, in some sort of fashion, that whether through appearance or personality, I fit into a box for them. 

I am not a stereotype. I am not a box. I am not some rugged, drawn-up identity that can cleanly fit into one aesthetic.

More than anything else, I am not a character meant to be used in a man's life to help him move forward or progress, just for the sake of being a good person, and then tossed aside when it is realized that I am a real person.

I breathe. I live. I feel.

I think about all of the days I have spent crying due to my own actions, the actions of others, the potential of world devastation, or reliving traumas simply due to the opinion placed on myself, by myself, that I am nicer or tougher or can get through. I think about him. I think about the grief that comes with love. 

I will get through.

I am a 'Manic Pixie Dream Girl', but my days are numbered. My girlhood is gone, and with it, the motivation to go into any manic sprees or believe in things like dreams and pixies.

On the other side of these days, however, nobody can be sure what type of person I will become. I am officially closer to 30 than 20, and my youth is slowly fading. My bones feel it in every movement. 

So with the rest of my faith, trust, and pixie dust, I will get through. My cup will never empty.

My love is infinite. My tolerance is not.

I am infinite. I cannot be defined.

'Manic Pixie Dream Girl' was never a real person. She was never me, despite the multitudes of people that have used that phrase to describe me, including myself.

My final note on this chapter of poetry is this:

Do not fit yourself into a box for anyone, not even yourself. Embrace all of the love you can get, especially when you feel as though you don't deserve it. Nobody in the end will care about your truth, but you will have to always live with it, so make sure it is honest. 

Giving you all of my love,

Goodbye.