I don’t think my lovers “loved” me but I felt sane with them. My desire to control everything, or at least have clearly defined boundaries (albeit unspoken) was satisfied by them. I knew exactly what it was and what it wasn’t. I knew that my menstrual sadness could be dumped on them when they brought me pain pills and delicious food. I knew what it was and what it wasn’t. It was everything, except the one I can’t identify. (Does it really exist?)
They always dump me, my boyfriends (we call them ‘Him’ now). I will never be the one to call it off because I will not be the one who was wronged, or the one who couldn’t let go of what somebody else had done. I will not be the one who is afraid of it.
I will never call it off. He will. He did. He always does. Because he still wants to pretend after I’ve told him from the very beginning that I am something wrong, there is nothing wrong with me.
This love thing, the commitment. I can’t say what it is or what it isn’t. I don’t know if there are lines to draw or where I would draw them. I can’t stand not knowing what it is, once in a while curiosity (or FOMO) gets to me and I think to myself, “Maybe I will figure it out when I’m in it” but… Nothing. I try, always the same me but a different him and all of them want something (not sex, you who is ready to
label me a whore) I don’t know.
Let me be the one who wronged him. Let me remind him of all the things done wrong to him by someone else before. He will be the one who is afraid of it.
He will call it off.
I didn’t want to be the one who gave up so I sacrificed you in an unfruitful quest to figure it out, this love thing. The commitment. What is it? I don’t know but I do know that I always do it wrong.
My dear Broken Heart, I am sorry that I wasted your wholeness on something I don’t know how to do.