It's been a Long Day

Getting walked on is a part of life.
A camp friend once told me,

"It's better to be a doormat,

than to be a footstool."

Well,

what do you think?

I don't know, myself.
All I know is that sometimes,
the things you, and you, and you,

make me want to scream and pull out my hair.
And don't get me wrong,

I'm a strong person.
I pride myself in it.
But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt,

right?
Right.
That doesn't mean I don't get hurt everytime you say you'll call, and don't.
Everytime you don't take no for an answer,

Everytime you stand me up,
Everytime you ignore me

Everytime you belittle me
Everytime you call me "child" and "baby"

Everytime you walk out

Or run away

Or blame me

Or shame me

Or simply push me too hard.

When you accidently smack me in the face, and laugh.
When I tell you I'm sad, and you tell me

"If it makes you feel better, I'm not mad you didn't want to do something today."
I resolved this year to not be a doormat.
Perhaps I'm not,

maybe the answer all along is that I am indeed a footstool.

I never felt better,

than the day I looked back on my food journal,

and realized that that part of my life was behind.
I never felt more beautiful, more proud of myself.
I never felt like a stronger and better person.

Dubia.
Dubia.
Dubia.
The word, the name,

Rolls off my tounge.
I want to be there.
I want to be there,

basking in luxery,

releaved of worry for a few days.

Come with me.
I've extended a hand to you,
I'm asking you to come to a place where they sell

the magic carpets,

where the gold is more beautiful,

where the spice and the sea never leave you,

where the heat soaks into our bones,

and we can leave this cold wasteland prarie behind,

where the freedom is complete

and every breath is a safe one.

You can go anywhere.
Where do you go?