craving love
summer and fear
A summer fling could have been fun but the summer is coming to an end.
There were no flings and no possible flings either. There is only a friend I once thought I could fall in love with. I’m glad I didn’t. I’m glad it passed like a storm, leaving me to my dry desert of love. I sit here, thinking romance might knock on my door, deliver itself to my heart and change my life until the spark grows dim and a new heart comes to conquer. If only fairy tales were real and wishful thinking did me any good. Sometimes dreams come true, and mine seems to be over yonder, waiting until I get my ducks in a row. Sunburn turned into a tan and I have no one to share the white bits of my skin with.
I haven’t craved love in a while. Last year’s disappointment taught me I want something true, something I don’t have to doubt or wonder if I’m enough. I don’t want to be the other woman, or the second thought. Yet I’m young and I should want trouble, but I was born as trouble and have done everything I can to follow the road and not miss the stop signs. I wouldn’t want to get fined. I wouldn’t want a heart broken over the selfishness of my own wants, my own needs, my own body wanting to be touched. If only they made antibiotics for this sort of thing.
It’s not her. My heart knows, and I believe it would know. She has everything I want but it’s not her. I don’t know where I can possibly find the correct her, the correct female specimen looking for a specimen as strange as me. Are there any singles looking for a college dropout, burned out writer, wannabe chef? If so, please give me their number.
I’m done with possible four week romances, confusing second dates and mixed signals. I deserve more. I don’t want messy. God, am I tired of messy. I am messy everywhere and lately I want neat. I need it. The OCD becomes hungry with perfection and depressed with obsession. I crave to go out on a first date and hit it off immediately instead of wondering if I check all their boxes, if they’re going to kiss me or even think of it. If they’ll be threatened by so much personality I’ll have to tone myself down eventually. I want someone that likes the loud, insane parts of me. I don’t want to change myself.
I’m no longer settling for “nice enough”.
I want to listen to “You Make Loving Fun” and feel it in my soul. But I don’t want to change myself. I don’t want to minimize the silly things that come out of my mouth, or the compulsive need to have a cigarette in hand (if the setting allows me to have a cancer stick). Maybe watching all of those French movies ruined me, because if there are no Marlboros in sight while talking about life, I might die. Or the cigarettes will kill me first, we shall see. — The point is: I fought an eternal battle for this authenticity to radiate off me, I don’t want to blow out the candle, I don’t want to hope an edited version of myself might be more attractive.
I used to think that before. Being myself felt like a curse, and nowadays it’s the only thing I want to be. Let me be the rock song, the strange flower, the charm dressed in black.
Perhaps there’s some fear hanging in the back of my conscience, maybe they’re responsible for the smoking. I bet it’s there, keeping me from freedom, making sure I’m overprotecting myself. Is it that? Or is my ying unable to find my yang? That would make a great dirty joke.
My planets say I should do some intentional traveling, learn a new language, fall in love with a foreigner. My philosophies are mixed up, my desires in different places, my hopes remain and my exhaustion comes out of nowhere, a fatigue with no reason, a daydream, a vision of someone I should be becoming. A seriousness suddenly creeps in and I want to stop trying.
Craving love makes me wonder if it will ever come. Craving love births a paranoia, a question of when, why, perhaps, may be, should be. I was taught love was only conditional, so parts of me go back to the state of: I can be anything you want me to be. I can be your shapeshifter. I can try. But I haven’t tried to chameleon my way to people’s hearts in the past few years, and I want to show my real colors nowadays. I’ve been visible all along. I’m a no conditions gal. I love deep, I love strong and I keep that love with me, even when bonds break, friends move, acquaintances forget. I forget, but my heart doesn’t. My heart has the memory of an elephant.
I was born in conditional land, and I’ve been traveling since birth, towards a land of my own. The island of unconditional love. It has been hard, and many questions come back when I get a glimpse of love, signaling a possible affair, waving, making me remember.
The possibility of baring my soul to someone comes, and the fear you’ll be disgusted with how much I love makes me feel small. Affection was a prize to earn. Approval was a tennis match, a never-ending competition, sometimes a war. The winner gets it all, and there’s that.
Afraid of love because of his big wallet and whiskey bottle. Afraid of love because they could never teach me, show me what it was. Afraid of love because others seem to think I don’t deserve it. Afraid of love because they’re so afraid of it themselves, they have made me fear myself, my nature. The problem is, I am love. I have always been. It’s what I came here for. I love for miles and miles. I love for years, days, minutes, songs, plays, words. I love.
I crave a love that won’t shame my past. I crave a love that won’t be scared of what lasts. I crave a love that finds a way out of the darkness.
So now, I am on the lookout for the love I deserve, I crave. The love I am enough for. The love that comes with no strings, no condition, no contract.
Thanks for reading :)