I think she’s the right woman for you — the kind of woman who’s sweet and feminine and family oriented. A good woman who’s happy to be fully provided by you, to stay around the house and bring hot meals to your table. A modest-looking woman who wears clothes that you approve of, who carries herself the way you’re proud to show to your relatives, whose sexual history can be told in two sentences. She’s soft-spoken and into art, with long black hair and blue jeans and natural abilities to handle kids. She’s the loving girlfriend, the giving wife material who ticks all your mental boxes, the boxes you often try to put me into but I can’t seem to fit.

I know what you’re thinking. I don’t know anything about her. I don’t need to know and frankly I don’t want to know. But every time you mention her or imply her presence, every time you tell me off for not being the way you think I should be, you give me little choice but to compare myself to her, to feel a little less than as though I’m not good enough. As though there’s a way to be a woman, a woman who’s chosen, who’s worth fighting for, who’s to build a family with, and I’m just not it. I’m strong and fierce and independent and kind and compassionate and sexy and smart but I’m still not it. You’re fucking me and leaving her at home and I’m definitely not it, yet I still wish I could be the good woman she is — oh the irony.

I wish I could be the good woman she is just so maybe, maybe, you would stop telling me one day my man will come while your body is still hot on mine and your hand is travelling down my belly button. Maybe, just maybe, I would be lucky like her, of course not right now, but to meet you at the right time of adulthood, to date the young, carried away you and start a life well taken care of by the older, responsible you. To spend all the nights she could reach you just by moving her feet a few inches to her right, the mornings she opens her eyes and you’re the first thing she’s greeted with. To have the security of knowing regardless of where you go or how long you’re away for, you will always come back to her. Maybe, just maybe, I would have you all for myself.

I think she’s the right woman for you, not me, because I’m sure I will never be the good woman she is. To you, I’m anything but that kind of good: I’m young, I’m all over the place, I rush my decisions. I’m emotional, unstable, and uncontainable. I look nothing like the wife image you have in your head as my heels are high, my dresses are short and my boobs are showing. My sexual history could probably be summarised by a few sentences but definitely not two. To you, I’m anything but that kind of good no matter how sweet and feminine and family oriented I’m, no matter how extraordinary our mind and body connections are, and no matter how safe and balanced and loved I make you feel. You just don’t see me that way and there’s nothing I can do.

I might appear no good but you already know — I’m not defined by good and I don’t care about being that kind of good. Stick with her as you do and I’m happy being me in all colours. I’m happy to cry way too much, to be a bit too hard to control, to have a complicated history that can be intimidating. I don’t need to be a “good” woman to any man because I choose myself instead of hoping to be chosen. It means I don’t live this life measuredly so that some man would be pleased and pick me. I live this life my way, the natural way of soul-searching and self-discovery, which no doubt would involve a lot of mistakes and stupidity and nights with men like you who force into my mind the women I wish I never had to know. For that, I might be far from anyone’s one-dimensional ideals of a girlfriend or a wife, far from the woman you would ever imagine introducing to your family, and it’s okay.

At least I get to be a whole person, and I’m all for the people who see my magic.

I think she’s the right woman for you but honestly I don’t know. She might be or she might be not. I realise I don’t really care anymore.