Letters I Never Sent: To the girl who’s just so tired of men

There’s this growing ache I carry, not always visible, but always there.
The older I get, the more tired I am.
Of men.
Of explaining myself when I say that.
Of softening the edges with: But I date men. I love men. I’m not bitter, really.
As if I owe a disclaimer for feeling exhausted by a system that was never built for me.

Because it’s not about one man.
It’s about them.
The ones who take up space with the quiet confidence of people who’ve never had to ask for it.
The ones who inherit the world and pretend they built it.
The ones who live off the interest of a patriarchy that’s been paying dividends for centuries.
The ones who weaponize ego, who flex in mirrors and post it online, hoping for approval, and if they don’t get it, lash out.
With insults. With blame. With the kind of fragile rage that burns everything around it.

Some days, I put on a summer dress because it’s hot and I want to feel good. And suddenly I’ve become a thing:
A platter served without consent.
A walking exhibit, body scanned from head to toe.
A polite nod, a whispered comment too close, a lingering stare that makes my skin crawl.
I get requests instead of respect. Demands instead of dialogue.
And I’m supposed to be flattered?

If I say no, I’m arrogant.
If I ignore them, I’m cold.
If I walk too fast, I’m dramatic.
If I stop to say something, I’m baiting danger.
God forbid I wear headphones. Or shorts. Or confidence.

And still, they touch.
My arm. My waist. My butt.
Because some of them truly believe they’re allowed.
Because too many of them are.
Because the system they made and still rule gives them permission.

And I wonder…
What would it feel like to get a break?
A full week with no men around. Just us.

We’d wear whatever the hell we want.
We’d sunbathe, unshaved, topless, soft and unbothered.
We’d walk home alone at night, headphones in, no keys between our fingers.
We’d dance in the woods. Laugh loudly. Take up space like we were meant to.
We’d talk about joy instead of safety. Dreams instead of fear.
And I think maybe we wouldn’t choose them, after all.
Maybe we were just taught to.

Wouldn’t that break their hearts?
Wouldn’t that terrify them?
To know that if all things were equal, we might not pick them at all?

And then I remind myself, it’s not mean to wonder that.
What’s mean is this world.
Where we are offered up without asking.
Where we are observed, objectified, harassed, and then told to smile about it.

So no. I’m not sorry for feeling this way.
I’m not sorry for being angry.
I’m not sorry for saying that maybe, just maybe, things would be better if men sat the hell down for a while.

Because if they weren’t raised to believe this world belonged to them…
We could just live in it.
Freely. Safely.
Fully.

And maybe then, I wouldn’t be so tired.

Photo: cottonbro studio via Pexels