There are greater things in life than compromising oneself for the sake of petty hand-holding, or institutionalized unions.
I wasn’t actively looking, but actively running — from you, and him, and all my other past mistakes. You, being the most recent —are the King of Hearts atop a precarious card tower.
You participated in it’s demolition.
And so with you west bound, and him bound for nowhere, I give up on those childish hopes for life-long companionship. The struggle to maintain optimism was far too taxing. Nor was it rewarding.
And so like always I will proceed. But the wilted, discolored handful of flesh that has pitifully sought comfort this way and that will be noticeably absent.
My heart-shaped box, ornamented like a calavera de azúcar, will gleam in its stead — reflecting a macabre and calculated beauty that will mask the absence of something real beneath.
I don’t want valentines, I want pace-makers. And I don’t want lovers, I want poetry. I want feelings that come in 16th century couplets, and I want your hands and your mind to both be reaching for the same thing — something genuine.
Because at the bottom of this rabbit hole of intimacy, attraction is sex, and sex is power, and power induces inferiority.
I’ve been rolling the dice and skipping down the brightly colored squares of this silly love-themed game board, only to be sent back to bed, to jail, to home, to the conservatory, to limbo, to purgatory.
Consider this my declaration of bankruptcy, forfeiture, and resignation.
Daddy, daddy, I’m through.