“You’re too beautiful for that buuulllllllshit,” he says to me.

The ‘bullshit’ being his misguided interpretation of a facet of my most sacred emotional bond.

This ‘bullshit,’ determined after having known me for less than a day. After accusing me of lying about every personal detail I shared.  After questioning me about banal objects and accusing me of hiding some sentimental truth.

The only bullshit here, sir,  is telling me my business like you know me.

… and if you really understood me, you’d realize it’s bullshit to determine what I deserve by my physical appearance.

One thought on “Bullshit”

  1. Ugh, I’ve always hated that whole “You make yourself ugly with [article of clothing].” And then on days when you’re not wearing the offending item, they rave and go “This is so much better, this is the real you!”
    “real” existed the whole time, dude. I am real. I am right here.

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