I wrote a song about you.
Also, I’m seeing other people.
A placeholder. Someone to keep you warm and toot your horn. A body to entice you. A mind to excite you. A cheerleader. A supporter.
A woman of beauty, wisdom, lust, sensuality. A woman overflowing with everything you want to take a bite out of. Bite after bite, I give freely to you, until I’m left as a pile of bones.
I give pieces of my flesh away to make them feel better, in hopes of giving them the single limb that serves as the key to obtaining the commitment I seek.
I thought I was done with this game. I thought the crowds had all gone home. I thought it was over. I thought the words I spoke were finally communicating my truth, my desires. I thought I finally deserved more. F*ck that. I do deserve more.
My therapist says I need to pay more attention to what people say and not what they do.
My friends say I need to pay more attention to what people do and not what they say. I say f*ck it, to all of it.
And here’s why:
“I planned a weekend getaway with you. I am nervous to send this clip to you, here’s a song I wrote about you. Do you want to come home with me for Christmas? Can you come skiing with me in Denver in February? Are we doing something for New Year’s? I’ve never kissed someone at midnight. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re enough. You’re enough. You’re safe. I’ve got you. We are good. You’re safe. I can’t be in a relationship right now. I can’t be that person for you. I’m sorry if this became too serious for you. I’m seeing other people. I’m seeing other people. I still want to take you on the getaway next weekend. I’m seeing other people.”
I’ve got a handful of those, too:
The way you kiss my forehead lightly. The way you kiss every inch of me. The way you touch me. The way you slowly put my hair behind my ear. The way you caress my face in the middle of Smoothie King at 2:00 p.m. The way you hold me, squeeze me, wrap your limbs around me—saying with your body, sometimes with your words, “I need you.”
The way you look at me. Damn. The way you look at me. How you missed a train to build a bed for me. How you took two trains for two hours just to help me move on a Saturday. Dammit, how you take two trains for two hours every other weekend to see me. How you’ve spent half a year being an active presence in my life, asking me to be one in yours.
How you kiss me. How you look at me. How you look at me.
Have you seen the way you look at me?
I’m tired. I’m so tired. I’m tired of being a light, a ray of sunshine, an awakened being to enlighten a man when he’s sad and lonely and mourning a loss of another.
I should know better. I should know better by now. I’m tired of being the “pretend” girlfriend.
I’m tired of giving you the experience without a label, without a commitment. I’m tired of giving all of me, every ounce of me. I’m tired of crying and shaking in another man’s arms who doesn’t love me. I’m tired of giving that side of me. That half of me. That angle of me. That abstract and that real version of me.
Here I am—the raw, honest, vulnerable, awakened being who is standing in front of you. I don’t want to hide anymore.
I want to be here.
But when you tell me you want me around while figuratively pushing me out the door, I don’t know how to open up or close off. But rather, I seek to stand still, in awe and confusion.
But this time, I don’t.
This time, I set boundaries. This time, I say no. And I mean it.
I don’t want to be confused anymore. I’m tired of giving any portion of me to someone who can receive with their words, honor with their eyes, embrace with their body, reciprocate with their actions, but clearly closes off their heart.
Mixed signals I can understand. But being hit by a train, I cannot.
I specifically said, “I cannot be involved with an emotionally unavailable man,” to which you replied and assured you were not.
I should know better. I should.
But this time I felt I communicated. I discussed. I reiterated. I challenged. I spoke. I communicated. When my mind was alert, when my desires changed, when I was aligned with what I wanted—I spoke. And I felt that you hid. You hid the truth to better suit your needs.
I’m tired of being the cake. The cake they can eat and have, too. I’m tired.
And here I am, racking my brain to figure out what I did wrong, what I mistook as something else. What I breathed into. What I felt into. What I misinterpreted.
And when it’s all said and done, I didn’t do it wrong. This time, I didn’t.
And maybe cutting this cord allows me the growth to receive a human who truly sees me, and doesn’t close their eyes.
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