I broke down, again, last night. Fed my loneliness a couple of Netflix documentaries with a side of palpable fear. I needed a mindless break because reading makes me want to write and writing leads to crap like this. . .
I try to remind myself to fluff my pillows and place them in the center of my bed because there is no one else to make room for on the other side. But I waver from side to side. The center feels too isolated. Like I’m subconsciously trying to sabotage any hope of lasting love by affixing myself in the center of an unmoved island. Have my shores all eroded— Maybe sanity has finally leaked its last drop of sentient liquid hope. The fluidity of me leaking onto sheets and a pile of pillows no man needs. What do men need? (I will place a temporary question mark at the end of the prior rhetorical question, but only because spatially it looks correct. But the purpose behind the rhetorically derived requires no such mark. It’s really a glorified statement. A statement I have all and none of the answers for, when none is actually even required.) Men seem to require less and settle more. But I cannot settle. I feel a deep rattling inside my bones. As if my clavicle has come loose and my wrists and ankles are wound too tight.
I’ve spent too many years giving my woman fuel to the wrong men. Men who take. Men who hate. Men who shame and blame. I’m drawn to their dark parts, but they’ve sucked all my light; A flight of oysters gone in a blink.
So—I broke down, again, last night and filled out an online questionnaire for some cardboard dating site. I took my time with the questions pouring my mind’s milk into each narrow-minded box. An hour later it showed me potential matches and ten minutes after that, a couple of notifications, wanting to chat. I stared at the screen. Read their bios. And shook my head at the pathetic quality to all of this. These boxed bios, boxed men, behind a blinking screen. These are my matches. . . We had nothing in common: I like to read. They do not. They hunt and fish. I do not. I want to travel and adventure. They like watching movies and TV on Friday nights.
So, I deleted my account. I just can’t be confined to boxes and the absurdity of all the nothing most people share. Then I crawled back into the center of my island bed and just sat. I sat and held my own hand. Then I stared at my palms and traced all the visible lines that hold meaning so deep, and I just wondered: why.
© Grace Black
I also dabble with poetry prompts on Instagram. Follow me on there,@graceblackink, for more daily poetry and play along. Do you dabble in wordplay as well? Let’s create!
Love and Ink,
cc image from Unsplash