When it comes to love, it’s hard not to care. It’s something I’ve never had. I can’t help being single. As much as I try looking for “the one,” I can’t control my fate. I’ve never been touched, or loved, or kissed by someone who meant it. Who wanted to feel what it was truly like to see inside me. Never looked at me like I was the most brilliant person to ever grace their atmosphere. I never had anyone step into my own and break me down, introducing me to the purest version of myself. Behind the makeup, behind the pretty, behind the madness, behind the ugly.
I’ve navigated through different channels in search of love— the one thing they all say is worth going insane for. The tragedy is that I’m 27 with no history of a genuine physical affection. Just Instagram likes or thirsty DM. Pair that with a destructive phenomenon within gay culture to bury forced-to-be-nonexistent feelings in pits of meaningless sex. At this age, I am wise enough to know that the path to something real is not this vacuous. It is not designable. But was it always meant to be this painful?
I cannot devise a plan for a man to fall for me, no matter how many dates I take him on, or however many pieces of myself I show him. He will have to hold the key himself and decide. Authentic love will always remain a mystery. Something always remind me of the reality that I am not yet enraptured by. It’s in the vision of a song, no matter how shallow. Or a picturesque moment of the crystal vaults of heaven and cotton daydreams of lying in bed with the person God intended for me all along.
A candied fever of love lines the recesses of my fantasies. I sway to the beat of lovers unloved. I carry my weight in skin-tight jeans. My limbs are seashells on waves of sand, but the ocean is where I want to be. The one who looks is never found when all he does is roam around. If I stay in the place where I should be, he will find me there eventually; not virtually.
I want to hear from him, “You are mine.” I’m only waiting to be found, but I’m not waiting anymore. Not for the men who want skin then head for the door. I mean more and I am everything, and through him I’m adored. Crown me, I’m a king; immortalize me with a ring. Beating white heart, I write the lyrics that you sing. For serenades that cascade queer Valentine understanding.
I hold sheer love for myself as a whole individual. I exude unbreakable power in knowing my worth. No matter what we look like or who we are, we deserve only the best for ourselves.
I pray for a beautiful man who is down for the ride as my equal, but the single life remains real and I remain the realest single queen alive.