I want to be the little spoon.
They don’t get it. They see me, loud, callous, sauntering through the bar with my chin strung up in some malicious smile. They think I want to be on top. They think I want to grab their hair, snag their head back, to bite down on that pad of their ear.
None of that. Not right now.
I am fully unable to maintain platonic relationships with men anymore. I think if I did find a man who didn’t love me back I should love him harder. I’ve recently been unable to swallow up my desire to be wanted.
But I don’t understand what any of these men want or expect. The blow job that will never be? Hands wrapped around their neck and the wildly cinematic kiss? I offer none of that. I offer alcoholism, a reckless sense of humor, scathing criticism. I offer the little spoon. Shitty poetry. Inarticulate phone calls. Mistakes.