I Don’t Know How To Make You Love Me


The gaping silence between my last call and your last text. The glaring canyon of your “typing…” to “Last seen at…”

I hate the overpowering strength of need that grabs me in its current and pulls me under into another call. A giant wave that takes me by complete surprise. Even though I know the strength of the choppy ocean, I am still stunned when swept away. I see the tide rising, and the muscle in the moment keeps my head beneath the water. I try to gasp for air, to drink in the sweet relief of sanity that would clear my thoughts and protect me at a safe distance. I fail. A sucker punch robs me of breath, and the deafening sound of your call tone makes my eardrums ring with each tintinnabulation.

I abhor this whole phase of you being too busy for me, and my desperate need for you; a silent frantic drowning child ignored by the lifeguard intently working on his tan. I am jammed between the rock of not wanting to be a bother, keeping my needs bottled up, hidden in a cave so far from daylight, so that I can remain a nice “lady”, and the hard place where I am shackled to my hankering for your touch, the warm, breathy caress of your whispers on my neck, that I would rather dig my heart out of the prison walls of my ribs, with a teaspoon than be tortured by one more empty inhalation of the ambiguous humiliation of the absence of a DTR.

I detest my mind. It cannot excavate the dead images of you, long cremated and buried by break ups and let downs, disappointments and dreams unrealized. Concentration and distraction, have been sold to the slave ships, pinned down by the shackles of your games. The silhouetted sails of honesty dot the horizon, like fat specks of ghost arms waving away my sanity. Playing tricks on me, it mocks my memory, it tells me I have never had a thought saner than the only one that floods my brain, drowning out all others. You…u…u, the eerie sounds of Casper’s less amiable enemies, floating along the insides of my skull’s walls, haunting me.

My body is at war with me, filled with the heat of human moisture, it quivers to be drizzled by the maple sweetness of the previews of fantasies you star in. It itches to dance through the orchestra of bodies mangled in passion, a chocolate salted caramel swirl sprinkled with sweaty funfetti. Crescendo shattering the windows of my soul, tears… sweat… moan… drool…quake, the bottom line of grounding splits and envelopes good decision-making, and the night suddenly births day. A sleep-robbed zombie impersonates me, nonchalantly enjoying all the fuck ups it indulges in, it loves to shit on my life and not give any fucks about the mess it makes, garnished with the stupidity of a satisfied smile. The some gotten kind.

The bile of disgust fills me not only because I lose control of all that keeps me in control, but mostly I grow an animosity in the depths of my soul in these moments. Because my Harvard educated, fully grown self with C-cup breasts, great credit, and two degrees still has no idea how to make you fucking love me.