I've been measuring the world in awkward pauses and

how many hands it takes to wrap about

my waist. I've been too busy wondering whether to

suck in to speak out and the words are tangling

up here in my head and

when I try to 

enunciate

my tongue has gone dry and my lips

can't remember how to move. And I wish for

a time machine

and I'll go back to the 50s and act the proper housewife,

brains won't be expected from me and yes I might burn dinner

but I'd be a loyal little spouse to my clean-suit husband.

Or perhaps the Regency era, when girls couldn't be alone with boys

unless they wanted gossip and heaven forbid a casual introduction

between young, unmarried people. Yes, there my silence could be

endearing and

proper and

courting would be simpler (in my case, anyway). 

I've been told to be the heroine of my story but I don't want this spotlight and

is it really so bad to want a hero? 

I've been told this is what beauty is and

this is what a modern woman is and

I start to feel archaic and wonder when time travel will be

a possibility. 

I've been told I'm perfect the way I am but the way I am

doesn't fit into 21st century society; I am no leader of the people, I like to fit myself to corners, I

like to be nothing more than a part of the wall. 

I want to be told that society needs followers and that I'm the backbone of America, I want to

scribble stories alone and sure have them change lives

but without people bothering to stare at me.

I want to be told that everyone has their time and mine isn't now it's

someday in the future and my time won't necessarily look like a photo-shopped

magazine cover but a worn, dearly-loved paperback.

I want to be told a lot of things, but I also wish I didn't always listen to everything

the world tells me.