It’s so simple it hurts: Treat men like objects. (It’s called Kiss for a reason—keep it simple stupid)
Even if it breaks your heart. Even when you’ve pined and yearned and hoped and dreamed and cried your heart out, I want you to stay the course. I want you to have the stomach to come back to the scene of the crime, stand still in your place of humiliation, and have the guts to say, this is a wild, lawless game. I am my own game, and in my game I pretend to fall in love so much so that I believe it too. But I want you to have the guts to break your own heart and treat this sacred thing like it’s a game.
I want you to treat it recklessly, thoughtlessly, carelessly like it’s a commodity easily replaced by some machinery of modernity. Like you could buy a half-dozen more at the five-and-dime.
I want you to play with him like you’re the director of a Barbie scene of the highest order of drama. I want you to shock your audience of two (or three or four). I want you to enjoy yourself and excavate your rawest power fantasies.
There, you’ve got it now. Treat men the way they would treat you, because every action has a equal and opposite reaction. I want you to confiscate all benefit of the doubt you’ve given him.
Take that man that’s gotten himself impaled in your heart like a deep splinter and extract it even if the sight of your own deep pulsing flesh makes you want to look away. Don’t close your eyes if you want to overcome your fear of the darkness of solitude.
You know where he lives. Walk back to the address of your heart even if you have to ask for directions, then once you get there you’ll find the door is locked and the keys don’t fit. Don’t worry it’s your house for sure. Break the windows and make your way in, you’ve got a right to your own stolen home.
Break your heart, because it’s not really yours to begin with, you’ve given it away and now he thinks it’s his toy. So break his toys. You will birth a new heart, you’re a woman. But he won’t, he can’t. He never will.
Treat men like objects. God forbid they secretly want it, and I dare say need it. Be the strength to remind him that he is an object wearing the clothes of a human, and his soul is trapped in a society that won’t let him see his own reflection. Do the unspeakable and unforgivable thing and demand that this dance of love live up to the truth. Don’t let the delusion continue any longer because you are the heroine. Do it for real, true love, the love that has never existed before you were born, the only one that makes sense to your brilliant mind.
SUBLIME COURAGE 
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