I started out pretty clear-headed. I knew pretty early on that this relationship wasn’t a real relationship and it wasn’t going to move forward. I knew by the way you didn’t claim me as your girlfriend in public, the way you introduced me using my name instead of a title, the way you wouldn’t hold my hand, how quickly and fervently you tried to get to the physical. I knew the way you didn’t ask questions about who I am or where I come from. I knew the way you texted instead of called me, the way you refrained from putting effort into actually courting me. Our dates were hangouts. I knew the way you told me everything I wanted to hear when you were drunk and then acted aloof the next day, like it never happened. I knew by my own feelings of confusion and denial.
These mixed signals were never really mixed, they were just distortions of my own imagination. I allowed myself to get swept up by superficial moments and now I’m here. I’m in a little deeper. I have slept with you now. I’ve revealed a little more of myself. You saw me without makeup. You know where I sleep. You know how I like to be fucked. You’ve been inside my body and now you’re inside my mind. You are constantly inside my mind. For however long this lasts, you are a part of me because I carry you in my thoughts. Where will this go, I can honestly say I know with certainty that the answer is “nowhere”. It can’t because you’re not the one. You’re not “guarded”, you just don’t care and as usual I started off guarded and now I do.
I know exactly why I keep you around. I’m lonely. I like the attention. I like having plans. You are another name without a face. I’m objectifying you. I don’t love you and I never will, my heart knows better than that. But my ego? My sad, fragile, beat up ego keeps me stuck on moments of excitement, on anticipation, on the temporary feeling of being wanted and cared about. That feeling that I don’t know yet how to feel without a man.
I’m so unhappy and unfulfilled, that you are my only source of joy, my object of affection, my fixation. I’m fixated because I have nothing else to fixate on, and you’re my last source of pleasure and validation. I’m not addicted to you, I’m addicted to the sensation you create, the same sensation I’ve always been craving. I’m addicted to the pain. I’m addicted to uncertainty. The same things that drive me insane and cause me so much heartache, I’m addicted to. You are purely a manifestation of these sad desires that are rooted in my lack of self-esteem.
I attracted your indifference because I don’t care about myself. I attracted your meaningless sweet-talk because I like fantasy better than reality.
I was always a day dreamer as a kid, I used daydreams to stop the pain of being unwanted all my life. I would imagine what it felt like to be in a man’s arms and being desired. I would imagine all the superficial aspects of what love looks like, but never love itself.
So this is what I’ve manifested.
A man who doesn’t love me, but engages in superficial puffery that keeps me in this fantasy. The fantasy that I’m actually terrified of, so I only take glimpses that make me comfortable. I associate the tension of anxiety with desire. I don’t know love. I fear love. There’s a dichotomy that exists within me. I have a fear of being truly engulfed in someone, yet I simultaneously crave intimacy to the point of desperation. So I chose you. I chose you specifically out of that fear. I chose you for a glimpse that I never really have to commit to because you’re not the one. I chose you for the temporary highs. I’ve been here before. This is my pattern. I hope to break it, so I can find something much deeper and more meaningful than this. I truly want to know what it’s like to feel adored by the man that I adore. That can’t be you, but I’m still holding on, still fixating, still engaging in bullshit because this is who I still am right now and you are what I manifested.