I want a man to be a man. I know they exist, these men, this man I look for. I just have to see past whatever they’ve gathered around themselves, hiding who and what they are. For all know, my perfect man could be five feet tall and ninety-eight pounds. I’m sort of hoping he’ll at least be somewhere around my height (5'5") if not taller, but who knows what lies in a human heart, under mystifying package? So I talk to them all, the short and tall, the big and small, the wide and thin, the wiry and slim. Wondering. Is this him? Is this you? And why does it matter so much that I find you? To say I want to dive into your ocean seems trite. And dangerous if I dive in only to find you’re two inches deep. Break my damn neck.
So I am left with this inexplicable urge to be skin close in a relationship with a man and yet run like the Hounds of the Baskervilles are on my heels, like a squirrel darting up a tree to escape from danger. But the danger is not really from someone else, it’s from me. What if I can’t handle more than what I’ve already handled and fear locks me in, locks me down, won’t let anyone in. The question becomes, “will I choose what is best for me?” The question becomes, “will I be alone for eternity?” I’m not settling this time. Settling set me miles backward last time. I was careless with my life, I was careless in my choices, like one more cigarette to be burned and thrown away.
Just some things running through my head lately. Just wish they weren’t sprinting.