I am so done searching for, wanting, chasing, romantic love.

I am so done with it. I’m done with the love letters and the most beautiful poems I’ve ever written and the lemons and the cardinals and the torrents of purple flowers that lead me to places I don’t really want to go.

I’m tired of crying alone in my room, Olivia Rodrigo on repeat.

I’m tired of reliving all the pain and the disgust and all the pleasure. I’m tired of worrying how much you think about me, I’m tired of writing about you

and you

and you

and you

and you

and you

and most of all you.

I’m tired of creating blog posts so that I can express myself and you can read them and you can remember that you loved me once. I’m tired of chasing you, and it’s all I’ve ever done, even then.

I’m tired of writing posts that don’t have names because there are so many people, so few people that I want to scream at and punch and yell at and hold down and force to love me.

I’m tired of swiping and pretending that I’m happy single, I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss how you smell, I’m tired of pretending I’m not wondering what you taste like because I don’t even know and who gives a fuck anyway.

I’m tired of having what I want and pushing it way. I’m tired of being wrong.

My chest cannot handle the weight of my shame anymore, I cannot handle the sorrow that comes from writing and manifesting and thinking and journaling and

blogging

because none of it matters if I don’t have someone to share it with. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have someone who I can write to. It doesn’t matter if I don’t have someone that wants me, that begs me, to write about them and who writes about me, too.

This is all an act. It’s all a show, a puzzle to convince anyone, someone, anybody please

to love me.

It’s a collection of things I don’t fully believe in because nobody has really, not really, told me they love me in such a long time.

That’s a lie. I know it is. It’s so confusing. I’ve never felt so much love, experienced so much love and support from all sides in my fucking life and somehow I don’t want it.

I only want you, whoever you are.

I want you to hold me when I cry, and then I want to tell my friends what happened.

I want you to kiss me, please, I’m begging my lips ache with absence.

I want you to grab me and force me against the wall and hold me there.

I want you to write for me and take photos of me and dance with me under flashing lights.

Literally, this is killing me, because I don’t want you at all. Not one fucking bit, I don’t want anyone

specific

because that’s too painful, that’s too hard, and I’ve always, always been wrong about that

specific

person over and over again. So, maybe it is better to stop thinking it is someone or that it will be someone and accept that what I really want is an idea.

I want a fantasy, I want someone that the universe creates and manufactures for me, I don’t want a love that I have to make worth it, I don’t want one that takes so much fucking time to uncover and I don’t want to wait for you to wake up.

Yes, a text from each of you would be nice. I’m waiting. But I’ve broken so many hearts so many times that sometimes I worry that I’m a raging tornado spitting pieces of glass and iron nails that dig deep into hearts

hearts that feel them, yes

and love the feeling until

their chambers are drained of blood and gold and everything else they used to hold.

I get attached, I change, I morph, I become and I let go over and over again in cycles that I can’t seem to ever escape.

Know this. I don’t want you. I hate you so much. All of you. I do.

Click!

Now, like magic, let’s pretend this little poem is the last straw. Let’s pretend that now I am healed and fine and let’s pretend that I’m ready to love and let’s pretend

finally

that the person I’ve been waiting for my entire life is right around the corner.