Thank to Kate for suggesting Ben Howard’s “Keep Your Head Up” (yes, I used the song title as my own…I’m lacking creativity đ ). I hadn’t heard of Ben Howard until now. It’s always great to find a new, brilliant voice.
Keep Your Head Up
In college my best friend, Tina, a girl who smoked pot then wrote poetry because that was the only way she could get in touch with her voice, told me, âYouâre too touchy-feely for a guy, but I respect that. You wear your heart on your sleeve and write love poetry for women who are bitches and who will never even with their last dying breath respect you. You gotta write for you, dude. And maybe fall for a nice girl once in a while.â
Ten years later, as Giselle stomped out of the apartment, managing to slice her stilettos through my heart in the process, she said, âYouâre such a girl, Jake. All that flowery word crap isnât romantic. It’s pathetic. Grow a beard. Get tats. Be a man. If you werenât good in the sack, I wouldnât have lasted this long.â
Giselle was beautiful in that way that women who spend too much time getting manicures and pedicures and spending hundreds on the salon and spray tanning and then thousands on the clothes are. All beauty, on the outside, and no heart, on the inside. Yep, I thought because she was so beautiful that she would have a beautiful soul, but Iâve been slow in that regard, and I think about Tina who told me the truth and still does when she and her girlfriend, Adrienne, sit on my couch eating greasy pizza, drink Dark and Stormys, and smoke pot.
Tonight, Tina was by herself since Adrienne was working the late shift at the hospital. âYou look better.â
I raised an eyebrow. âThanks?â
âNo. You know, you were looking so bad, unhappy for so long. That Giselle was trouble. She was like some incubus sucking your dry.â
âOkay.â
âWhat have you written?â
I shrugged. I didnât really want to show Tina my latest, less than greatest, poem.
âOh, crap. You donât want to show me what youâve written? Youâve never done that. Youâve got to show me.â
âNo.â
âShow me. You know Iâm a bulldog about these things.â
She was. A typical dog with a bone. Sheâd be relentless and Iâd get a headache before finally caving. I decided to avoid the headache.
Defeated, I went into my study and grabbed my notebook. I tossed it onto her lap.
Her grin was like a kid with a hand in the candy jar. She immediately opened to the last page of writing and began reading. Her silence jabbed at me.
âWell?â I asked.
She looked at me and then smiled. âI hope these words are true, Jake. If they are, youâre finally home.â
I smiled. The words were true. Iâd found my soul, my voice, and knew I didnât need a woman like Giselle tramping on my heart. Maybe someday, Iâd meet a woman whoâd love me for me, the poetry geek guy, one who wouldnât think that wanting love sounded feeble or âgirlyâ.
We all deserve love and thatâs not a weakness; itâs not something designated for one gender or the other. Isnât it weaker to not admit that you need and want love? What’s the use of hiding it all away?
Tina pretended to wipe tears away. âMy boy has finally grown up.â
I laughed before I tossed a cushion at her. âItâs about time, yeah?”
end
Sascha Darlington
Clearly, her words of wisdom at the start of the tale were just what he needed even if it took a while for him to heed them.