An Open Letter To Potential Lovers

Note: Unlike a lot of my writings, this is not autobiographical. Please don’t think I’m this crazy.

Will you be my lover? Will you validate me with terrible terms of endearment like “sweetpea” & “buttercup”? Will you give me 10 orgasms a week? Will you liken me to the Hope Diamond—a rare national treasure? Oh my god, you will? Really? Great! Just to warn you though, I have a lot of issues.  Like if airlines made you check your physical and emotional baggage, I would always have to pay the extra 50 bucks because my shit would be overcapacity. I could totally Aaliyah our relationship plane and bring that shit down.

So here are some things you need to know about me. I will hold it against you if the kiss you gave me was too short. I mean, why are you being so distant? Kiss me again please and this time you better mean it! I will also hold it against you if you call me at midnight instead of eleven. Because, hello, you know I go to bed at 11:30!  Do you ever listen to a thing I say? Listen, I’m a bundle of insecure nerves.  I’ll ask you where you were today nonchalantly, and make sure your answer corresponds with your daily itinerary that I’ve memorized in my head. Like, I’m insane. But if all of this is okay with you, we should be set! For your convenience and my peace of mind, I’ve taken the liberty of writing up a relationship contract . Please sign on the dotted line, which is right below the 65th commandment, “You will always be my precious imported delicacy” and we will be in a relationship! Do you mind if I prick our fingers and sign it in blood?   I’m just kidding! Unless you’re into it. Then I’m not kidding.

I’ll do these crazy things because I’m scared that one day you’ll stop holding me through the night. I’ll do these things because someone broke my heart when I was 17 and my HMO doesn’t cover Lithium. I’ll feel terrible about doing all of it. I’ll wish I could be the normal one—the person who gives supportive back rubs, knows how to grill salmon, and be selfless—but I’m not there yet. Maybe you’ll be the one to fix me up and then my next lover will reap the fruits of your labor. Isn’t that the worst? I shouldn’t have said that. I’ll be just as fucked up with the next person I date, I promise!

If you violate our relationship contract and we happen to break up, I’ll try my best to get over it. I won’t be the crazy person you think I would be. I won’t send you ten text messages in succession that go like this:

Text message # 1 {10:24 p.m.) i miss u so much. i love u. plz talk to me.

Text message # 2 (10:27 p.m.) hello? where r u? why r u ignoring me?

Text message # 3 (10:29 p.m.) you’re fucking someone, aren’t you? i wish i could say i’m surprised but i’m’ve always been a whore. u were cheating me on, huh? disgusting. don’t talk to me.

Text message # 4 (10:31 p.m.) i’m sorry, baby. i didn’t mean what i just texted. i just am so hurt. i love u so much.

Text message # 5 (10:32 p.m.) but you apparently don’t give a shit about me! what the fuck?! why r u doing this to me? answer my texts!

and so on…

I’ll bow out gracefully. But I should tell you that you’ll never completely go away. No, it’s not because I’ve stolen a lock of your hair while you were sleeping. It’s because feelings never truly die. Just the seasons and the name of my next lover. Different arms, different genitalia, different smile, different laugh, different moans. Same lows, same highs, same moments of closeness that will make your body shake. Because of this, you’ll never be left behind. You’re carried over into every relationship thereafter. And eventually you’ll die with me. All of the people I’ve ever loved will. But I will be so grateful to die with such lovely lovers. I will let it die. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

image – Squirmelia

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