There is something romantically tragic about unrequited love. Amy Winehouse sings it best when she belts, “Love is losing game.”
And yet, I ask myself repeatedly, “why does love feel so shitty!?”
Am I that jaded that I allow someone to treat me less than and pass it off as “well, at least he’s nice!?”
Or do I secretly love the torture? Does it add to my creative mind? Does it fill me up?
For what purpose does my unrequited love serve?
And why, for THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY, do I keep doing this to myself!?
His quiet promises fill my head. Do they know that we’ve never been on a date? Do they know that he never came to me when I was feeling unsafe? Do they know that he never came to me when I was in physical pain? Do they see what I see?
What on the fuck do I have to do to make you respect me?? Love me?? Event like me?!
Maybe I’m the only one who is blind.
Maybe I’m the one who is looking past everything but the fact that he’s kind to others…
Perhaps Love is really a losing hand.
Perhaps I am losing at this thing called life.
Twenty-Eight. Single. Musician.
I am not the ideal candidate for love: Men my age either want them young (21-24) or the men in their early 30s want someone they can mold. It’s not me. It’s not even close to someone I could become.
What are my options?
Embrace my fate? Adopt 100 cats?
Settle for someone who doesn’t love me?