One of these days, consider this: you are expendable. You are expendable and he is beautiful. Create facts out of myths. Imagine this is a fairy tale and you are beautiful too. Imagine there is a prince named Ji Hyuk. Imagine that he sings. He sings, and you stand by, silent, because he has song enough for the both of you and your voice doesn't harmonize right. But that is okay, because your feelings are louder than words. Louder than the volume button.
There is a kiss-- fairy tales have rules, and there is a kiss. There is a kiss in the rules. Rule #37: there is a kiss. There is a kiss, but that is later. There is love, but that is later. There is the waiting now. You will stare at his lips now, and you will wait.
Later, there is a dragon, there is a dragon, or there is a metaphor. There is fame, there is underground music that permeates through the reinforced concrete. There are crowds, there are crowds of women, and they all have big eyes. They all have beautiful hair. There is the slip of someone's hair under your finger tips, and there is the monotony of the scissors. Snip, snip, snip, the strands on the ground don't belong to you, they don't belong to anyone anymore. The princess cuts off her long hair and no one knows it's her. The princess cuts the hair of anyone who enters the door and has money enough, and the story shifts, tilts on the axis, but the dragon still guards the treasure. The dragon guards the treasure, because that is what dragons do, doesn't let the maidens with the beautiful hair and the wide-eyes through, because where is your goddamn ticket?
You are the dragon. But that's okay, frogs and beasts become princes. There is true love's kiss and the scales come off and the princess blushes from inside the mask. Rule #63. You know this.
You can be the dragon, that's okay, he still gets to be the hero.
How To Be A Good Girl: you can sacrifice. You can leave early from work. Leave the manager shouting curses behind you and half a day's pay. Leave the hair on the ground and sticking between your fingers and forget to switch off the light and buy food off money you don't have and give it as penance for love. You can give it as a bribe to a man in exchange for his love, but we don't call it that in this town. There are words which mean the same, and they are all sacrifice. You can be the dragon, and you can be the mother, and you can be the family, and you can be.
You can wait. This is a love story. The Good Girl gets the prince. Be good. Be better.
Or be beautiful. Be the girl on a rooftop house of three days. There are three days of beauty and three years of goodness, but he doesn't own a wristwatch and you don't keep time.
Enter with your head down, leave your pride on the ground with the hair, this has nothing to do with fulfillment. You can blame the rooftop, and the stars that shine too close from up there, and the beautiful view from high above, and the girl with the big eyes. Blame the girl with the big eyes. Don't blame him. Don't blame him, because he will come back. Don't blame him, because he will come back to you.
An interlude, then: a period of comfort on the shoulder of the friend. Do not role-cast him yet, he is too silent for the stage, but the movement of his hand is rhythmic as he hits the skin of the drum, and you would like to hit out too, you would like to scream. You think it would be satisfying.
(Whatever you do, do not tell anyone that.)
Someone tells you a story. It is your mother and she tells you the moral first: be a lady. Be good, men like women who are strong, and silent and ladylike and good. She tells you the moral, but she forgets to tell you the story. She forgets to define goodness. And you sometimes forget to remember. And you are louder each time he pushes you away. Play with the hand you're dealt. Don't cheat. Don't three years mean anything to you?
Then he comes running when you're in trouble, and you cry, and you cry, and his shirt is soaked, but he is still solid under your cheek, the fabric rough against your skin. It itches. And you think this is still that story you ought to know. So what if you never really knew it, you can make it up as you go along, if only he'll take his cues from you. But he's center-stage and he's lost in the limelight, and he has four people up on the stage, and then he has three, and then he is alone. Then he is lost.
Then he is found. Your mistake was you forgot to search and he was found by the princess. You're a princess or you aren't.
Second iteration of the interlude: this is not about loneliness. Don't make meaning when he looks at you and smiles. Don't make meaning from the bruise on his skin and the insistent brush of his lips. You're allowed to take in the eye candy, but don't taste. Run, if you must. Shut the door and lean against it or fall to the ground; consider the options. Exhale.
Letting go in three easy steps:
Let go. Fucking let go. Fucking let go you fucking moron, he's in love with someone else. Love someone else. Don't wait. Move on. Let go. Don't wait.
His teeth clash against yours, and your skin is stretched taut, heart drumming a staccato beat. He is good with drums. He is good with the pounding and the noise and the rush of blood. The pool table is pushed against the wall and you are pushed against the pool table. Imagine his hair is soft, imagine it is softer than most people's, imagine you know. Imagine you know the cold end of a phone and the salt of grief, imagine you know loneliness, imagine you know love, imagine you know a mirror and it doesn't talk. Imagine it shows you your reflection and it works by physics. There are rules, like you can do anything if you have a pure enough heart and don't fall for the boy with the long hair and the sad eyes and who is the fairest of them all? You are not beautiful. You are not good. The table leaves a mark on your lower back.
His hand under your skirt, then. You've overshot the story. You are pure or you are a whore. You are a princess or you aren't.
Consider: you are in love.
Imagine this is a fairy tale. Spread your legs wider. Now imagine this isn't.