The Spanish Princess
there was this little girl ...
I had this spanish dress, black, with white polka dots all over, valance, and you could wear it shoulder free. I was at the doorstep to starting becoming a woman. So I put on that dress, pulled the upper valance, down my shoulder, and walked over to my stepfather. I was excited. I felt pretty and attractive. Like a Spanish princess. I felt sensual, in an innocent way.
It was not often I could feel like this. This dress was only a costume. My mother wouldn't allow me to choose my clothes. I could say what I want, but mostly I wouldn’t get it. And she loved to dress me the same as her. Like her doll. And this doll was never allowed to be prettier than her. Only a mini-me of herself. But I was young, blooming, expressive, sensual. I didn’t try to, but I shone. She watched me with eyes of envy. She might have understood that her man had laid eyes on me. I enjoyed his attention. Finally, a father who sees me!
So I tripped over to him, and when he opened the door I smiled and asked him:
‘Ain’t I pretty, huh?’
‘Yeah..’ he replied, and his smile got suggestive, ‘but, you know, I would like it even more if it would be like this -’ and he grabbed the middle edge of the elastic volant, pulling it down and stuffing it into the waistband, so the area between my bud-ish breasts and my belly button was revealed. I didn’t understand this. I liked it more the other way. But I was happy that I could be that kind of pretty he liked. And that was what the only image of father I’ve ever had taught me: To be that kind of pretty men like.
I was that girl.
And I wasn’t.
Cause I never was a girl. Ever since I was made to be a woman. My mother saw me as her possession and competition (which I probably was, without knowing). My stepfather saw me as his lover he has power over. Both of them tried to shape me into that kind of woman they wanted me to be. But I was a GIRL. I wanted to be careless. Joyous, funny, curious, sensual, silly, exploring, blossoming! Yet they didn’t let me. I was silenced, imprisoned, numbed, shrunk - and my beautiful unraveling female energy got exploited.
Something inside of me still wants to be that girl. (when I wrote this I cried ).
I feel that this innocent sensuality, this curiosity, and confident drive are still there. I wanna be fragile, reckless, and careless because I’m protected. But I’m not a girl anymore. I am a woman. Traces of my increasing age are obvious, although I look quite young. I know, too, I have the experience and knowledge of a full-grown woman. I’m taking myself seriously. Too seriously, mostly. It’s exhausting. And all of us humans, need moments of laughter, ease, and joy. I learned that this is dangerous. My mother would envy and punish me and my stepfather would use and abuse me. And the males and females in my life would treat me quite similarly. Over years of trying, I got bruised and scarred.
So I became that independent badass femme fatale I’m performing to be. With a vulnerable girl living inside, like a delicate spring flower in frosty winter.
This femme fatale is a role I weirdly like. It’s my mask, my armor, and I believe somehow it’s in fact a part of me. I like to play with it, cause I am good at it.
But you can’t always be cool. Even a femme fatale has feelings. Even a femme fatale can be hurt. And a femme fatale is goshdarn lonely. But she smiles (and sometimes fucks) it away. She needs to be superior. Cause anything else would scare the hell out of her. Being vulnerable is her death penalty. Again, she has to be a femme, a woman. She has no choice. Being a girl seems to have never been meant for her.
And that’s the facet of that role I hate.
Cause when you don’t have a choice, but MUST play it, it’s becoming horribly bizarre. From the thread of a soft, colorful, shimmering female power, I wove impenetrable protection which became my iron cage, and it’s sticking to my body like melted into it. It doesn’t matter, I don’t want this anymore. This role became me. I need this.
I wanna bloom!
With all my pulsating, luscious warmth, inheriting the cold hard strings of my self-made prison, overwhelming it with love and passion, and braiding them into my being with pride! The essence is still me. The DNA in it is mine.
there was this girl.
Who was never given space to bloom.
Until she broke her prison
and expanded in all the ways and dimensions she liked.
There was no limit.
She gave herself permission.
No fucks left to give
to all the naysayers.
And here she is, radically soft -
this girl fatale.
The Spanish princess,
wearing her dress exactly as she likes,
looking dope in it,
not asking anyone,
yet neither hiding.
‘Ain’t I pretty, huh!’