I’m So Sick And Tired Of This Love Triangle

woman stands in the ocean sadly
thought.is

You love me. You love her. I love you. She does, too.

I never thought I’d find myself in this situation. I told myself I was too good to be someone’s “maybe”, too sure to be someone’s uncertainty. But here I am, hopelessly in love with a man who is hopelessly torn between two women. Her and me. Me and her.

You’re drawn to her fiery spirit but you crave my gentle soul. You spend your days seeking my comfort and the nights seeking her warmth. You do not tell us, but we know — you cannot hide that there are spaces in your heart reserved for other people. There are places in your soul where I am not allowed to go.

You love me. You love her. I love you. She does, too.

Being in love with someone who is in love with two people is like plucking flower petals off of daisies. “He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me not.” One moment so sure, the next my confidence wavering. Do you love me? Did you ever?

But you do, oh you do. You would shape the world for me if you could. You are the first one by my side when I am unsteady, the last by my side when everyone else goes home. You wish we were the only two people left in the world, and in ours, we are. You swear by it.

Until, suddenly, you don’t. You are distant, you are cold, you are so far away I’m not sure I could ever catch up. You disappear for days and then return as if you hadn’t been gone for more than an hour. Where do you go when you are not here?

But I don’t ask. I already know.

You love me. You love her. I love you. She does, too.

I am so sick and tired of your pendulum antics, of your childish yo-yo tricks — back and forth, back and forth between us, so fast neither of us can catch you. Her, me. Her, me. When you stop moving, where will you land? On my side? On hers? Or somewhere in the middle? Maybe we’re both holding out for something neither of us can have.

I am not a jealous person, but you summon monsters out from my gut until everything inside me is green. Green with envy, green with sick, green like the shriveling flower stems from the daisies I spend my days plucking in vain. I am not the girl who hates, but you make me hate myself. You make me hate her, too.

So who’s it going to be? Her? Or me? Or are we forever stuck on this rollercoaster of your indecisiveness, swallowing back our nausea while we wait for you to choose? Will you?

I love you. She does, too. But maybe you love neither of us at all. TC mark

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