In the tapestry of life, there are those who dance in the spotlight, their names etched in golden letters upon the hearts of others.
The chosen ones, are the recipients of love’s tender caress, and they bask in the warmth of adoration.
Yet, amidst the scope of affection, there exists a corner where I reside—a place untouched by the gentle hand of destiny, where the ache of solitude casts its heavy shadow.
I have walked a path adorned with invisible footprints, my presence felt but never truly embraced. Like a forgotten melody, I linger in the background, a mere echo to the symphony of others’ lives.
Time and time again, I find myself at love’s doorstep, only to be met with a closed door and whispered apologies.
I am the eternal understudy, forever waiting in the wings, never to take centre stage in another’s heart.
I have witnessed the blossoming of affection, the tangling of souls, and the ecstasy of shared moments.
I have stood on the ledge of love’s embrace, my heart gashing to taste its sweet nectar. Yet, fate plays a cruel hand, and I am left to marvel at love’s ethereal dance from a distance—forever a spectator, never a participant.
***
In the realm of faded hues, where the world loses its vibrancy, my pale eyes wander, seeking solace in the souls of others. Their vibrant spirits dance from one person to another, finding their place in the hearts of many—everyone, it seems, except for me.
There he stands, a monumental figure with shoulders that carry the weight of his vulgar existence. He insists that he cherishes me, and so I unfold myself in his presence, like a fragile flower blooming for his eyes alone.
We entwine ourselves in the illusion of love, our souls colliding in a dance that mimics affection. But as time passes, doubts creep in, and I question whether our love is real or simply a mirage in the desolate landscape of my heart.
He moulds me into his vision of perfection, bending and shaping me until I become a figment of his desires. He hushes me when he’s bored, only to be awakened and enjoyed when he finds himself alone, craving my presence.
In his eyes, I gleam, transforming into the embodiment of his desires. I chirp and howl, desperate to please him in every conceivable way. I am addicted to his touch, his validation, unable to fathom who I am without him.
But soon, he drops my name, classifying me as nothing more than “another.” I abandon my own identity, convinced that as long as he’s having fun, it somehow justifies my own misery.
When I confess that my nights have grown duller, he suggests a candle to brighten my darkness. When I reveal that my wounds have become deeper, he offers a lantern to guide me through the pain. And when I confide that my days are numbered, he simply stops counting, indifferent to my fading existence.
I’m sorry, I plead,
promising to improve, to hide my pain better, to weep in silence, to wither away more swiftly.
The “relationship” evolves, as he nibbles on the affections of two other girlfriends alongside me, leaving me feeling like a morsel on the side.
He sips from my essence slowly until I am hollowed out, a vacant shell devoid of life. Eventually, I find the strength to leave, realizing that I have become nothing more than a vessel of misery, a fallacy, a tragic spectacle. I have become too difficult to love.
And in his eventual departure, he sneaks away with a part of me, leaving me forever incomplete. I have never felt whole since.
But hey, ____, it’s true. I know I am hard to love, too. I am burdened with my own complexities, my own insecurities, and my own wounds.
In the quiet of solitude, the ache seeps into my bones, etching its mark upon my spirit. I have become well acquainted with the empty spaces, the voids that yearn to be filled with genuine affection. I am a mere afterthought in love’s grand design.
“Too hard to love,”
And,
maybe, I am hard to love,
but perhaps
there exists someone in this vast universe who is searching for a love like mine—flawed and shattered.
Maybe,
hidden within the cosmic, there exists a love
for, love, in its myriad forms, can surely find its way to girls like me.
right?
for, there is a place where love waits, ready to embrace us,
flawed and extraordinary,
just as we are.
I hope,
I completely agree with you! This degree has introduced me to a world of history and culture. Thank you for…
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Good stuff.
- The Animal with My Face
- Alberta’s Book Ban: A Dystopian Reality
- Decoding “Sinners:” A Vampire Film with Cultural Depth
- John Hates Lemons
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The Animal with My Face
[A literary, modernist-inspired psychological gothic vignette with feminist and speculative undertones.] It began in silence. Not the sort that follows noise, but the kind that has always been there and waits to be noticed. The room held it carefully. Between the clock’s measured tick and the slight movement of the sheets, something remained untouched. It…
Alberta’s Book Ban: A Dystopian Reality
They say words have power; in Alberta this fall, they are also being held accountable. The weight of this power is evident as classics such as 1984, The Handmaid’s Tale, and Brave New World have been marched off the shelves—not with a bang, but with the muted bureaucracy of a book-ban policy that swept through…
Decoding “Sinners:” A Vampire Film with Cultural Depth
When Ryan Coogler’s Sinners hit theatres this spring, I expected style, atmosphere, and a dose of supernatural dread. What I didn’t expect was a politically charged, allegorical horror epic that tackles cultural appropriation, the cycles of colonization, and the politics of assimilation—all set to the raw pulse of 1930s juke joint blues. This film doesn’t…
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