I won’t be loving you
Original article written in 2017
If I had the nerve or the courage, that’s what I would say. However, I am not courageous, and I only show my fire when backed into a corner. But I must tell you before you go any further with your pursuit of me that I won’t be loving you. It has been decided. I look at our text messages, and there’s this long, funeral-like procession of heartfelt words and tender endearments. I responded with one word indifferently, mostly using impertinent abbreviations such as THX, IDK, and K. These are my responses after you’ve told me how special I am to you and how beautiful you think of me. I look at this pattern, the way you don’t give up even when an entire day has passed, and I have given you four words to your fifty. I looked at this and realized something so profound (and I must give you credit for it) about these messages, identical to the ones I sent to the man I love. He is just as indifferent and unresponsive to me as I am to you. I won’t be loving you, just like he won’t be loving me. It, this, and all of us are sad cases.
I wish I loved you. I know that you would love me and make me very comfortable in this life. I wonder if it’s the fact that your skin is lighter than mine. Or that your eyes are as blue as a clear summer sky, or is it that your hair is too straight for my liking, not enough kink, king, oh excuse me, for my liking. I need you to be something you won’t ever be. I am a foolish woman, for the same blood that makes your skin white makes mine just as bright, and those baby blues run in my family, too; I was even born looking like you. And although you are the better choice, the most logical, the most dependable, realistic, practical, smart, and rational choice, I must still tell you that I won’t be loving you.
I wish I did.
I wish I could say that my body would never yearn to be wrapped inside of ancient, dark, and glistening flesh for my love of you, but that would be a lie, and I am tired of lying. There are so many men like you who love me unconsciously. You love the outer me. What do you think I am? What do you think I will become? You love a caricature, an actress, an illusion. How many can say that they’ve loved the real me? They stuck around to see me engulfed in my flames. That they helped me put them out? That they’ve swept the floor after I broke every dish in the house, angry at myself? That they loved me despite?
You do not have what it takes to love a dragon.
Do not waste your time on me. There have been far too many men like yourself whom I have let down. Being nice to a man is a heavy investment, and I’ve never reaped any benefits. Men always feel as if I owe them something. I owe them and you nothing. Not even a reply.
Please don’t love me; I won’t be loving you. How unfortunate and immature I am to be passing you up. You, the man who loves me. The man who doesn’t let a day go by without thinking of me. A man who wants to show me the world with his hand in mine. Yes, you are the dream. I will not be able to love you because I do not have the grace or energy to do so. You see, I have been conditioned to neglect. I have found its drafty, lonesome halls to be a comfort, and I don’t know if I want company there yet. And even this brutal truth, I’m sure you’ll find attractive. Many young girls would be receptive to your advances, and many women would be flattered by your fortitude. Find them, and don’t waste another minute loving what won’t love you. You don’t have as many minutes as you think.
Signed sincerely and regrettably,
ME
