A modern interrogation of assumed romantic advances.
Explain to me your denial of attraction...
Every night you
send me a string of advances, and I don't know what to make of them... I don't
know how to see myself in terms of you. But despite all the motivational women that
say "you don't need a man," I struggle to see myself in terms
of me because sadly, I have let myself be defined by you.
Is there any particular reason you should think of me at
2:53? It's the middle of the night and you're drinking in your dorm, why is my name the one you search for? A shirtless snap here, and a
shirtless snap there...
Why do you send me ten second videos while you're naked in your shower singing "I
wanna make love in this club?"
Well I wanna make love in my sheets, or in yours, or
wherever. I'd travel a hundred hours and thousands of miles just to get where
you are. Romantic kisses turn to savage ones. And we'll fall asleep to the
purple hue of lovers bruises that will bloom tomorrow. And I'd wake up with the
sun jealously kissing your face while I'm held in your embrace. And there is no real evidence of what happened because the moon protected the previous night's
profession of love, lust and desire.
But I remember this only exists in my imagination. And I wonder why you only snap
me, never text me and never like my posts on Instagram. Are you afraid someone
else will see. That I'll show someone else the messages? What is so appealing
to you about only conversing with me late at night via ten second long videos
that disappear forever? What closure can you possibly gain from something so
momentary? So finite, no commitment necessary? Am I your secret or your shame? Or just a poor excuse so that you
can practice your game?
How about the countless "light-skin" selfies you
send me. Undoubtedly you want me to screenshot them, otherwise you wouldn't practice them for so long, you wouldn't send me so many.
You're annoyed when I give my commentary, yet send them because you feed off of my desire for you.
But then
when I tell you that you look good, you take the compliment as an invasion of your
manhood. And so you ask me not to "holla at you."
And yet you follow up
that request of solitude hours later when you snap me at 3:21 AM. You claim that you're bored, and drunk. You lick your lips, and I'm sold, let's fuck. And you continue to bombard me with my only weakness, your attention.
And if thinking about me in the middle of the night while you're intoxicated on the cheapest beer you and "your bros" can afford isn't enough to confuse me, you don't forget to mention
that you haven't had sex since August, so how do I respond to that? I relay that I am so readily available to you, readily available to wake up to lovers hues and locked finger tips. The idea is dismissed just as quickly as I proposed it. You plant these ideas of teaching me of womanhood. They're watered with your attention and your time-for-snapping selection.
What am I to you? Just one more girl you use to boost your
ego?
What am I to you? A girl you can confide in when your self
esteem is low?
What am I to you? A friend you find comfort in and think
nothing of what you do?
What am I to you? A potential lover you're embarrassed to be
seen with?
Because while all these can be true, and I'll never know for
sure... I'll never know. You keep your feelings locked up and pushed aside so
that I can't ever reach them. But I'm still so hung up on reaching you, no
matter the distance -latitude or longitude.
And with that you promise,"Don't worry, I'll come visit you," more times than I can gather. But when I ask
you when, you shy away from a response. You drive my hopes high and cut off the strings. The balloon of my hopes disappear into the air and become mere delusions. And despite how you love to see how you can cause a reaction, countless times you deny my efforts
of a true advancement; to coat your fingers with paint so that you can trace
your name on my thighs, treating you rapture with my eyes.
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