The boiled lover

I guess I’d never really thought I might end up alone. Somewhere in my future, I saw “something”, a happily ever after of sorts. I never saw me being on my own long term. But with every day that passes with more of the same bullshit, grammatically flawed messages that hit the inbox of whatever app I’m currently trying, I feel less hope. I become more certain that maybe there’s not someone for everyone.

I’ve met a million nobodies. Dated dozens of what’s your name agains. I’m tired. Really fucking tired.

I met the love of my life. I left him. I found the love of my past life. And just like then, we couldn’t be together. I don’t believe in much anymore but I’m starting to believe that this is my niche. I’ve carved it out of stone and inside it’s cold, hard, uneven hollow, I’m making myself comfortable, so comfortable that the mere presence of someone else in it keeps me awake.

Listening to their breath, a rattle, a snore, it grates on my nerves like unpacking chalk. A squirming that I inch away from, toss and turn until my body is contorted and cramped like a crab tied up with cooking string, ready to boil.

Get me out of here. I’m the frog in a saucepan, a girl in a bed, a lover misled.

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