Dating : This Is What Eats the Heart

But first, this.

I sent up flares to announce my happiness. A rebellion from a time when I was barefaced, lonely, and wearing soft pants. That was the winter where there was no snow only sun, and I walked down Sunset with two black umbrellas shielding my eyes.

What are you doing? Everyone asked, always. I’m hiding. Until when? Until conditions improve. But I’ll take victories where I can. The days arrived bleached. Wrecked and ruined.

Once, a lover said: Felicia, you’re killing me. Murder in the first. Well, then, Jake. I mustn’t be very good. You’re still breathing.

At home, I decided to write a syllabus for the dark days ahead. I’m good at making lists. The days become a kind of Halloween where I’ve grown accustomed to everyone’s sport-fucking, mask-wearing, and bandage-changing. Sometimes, I forget to wear pants. Sometimes, I forget to wear. Sometimes, I forget to. Sometimes, I forget. Sometimes I. Sometimes.

But if I eat this kale. If I press my palms into the ground. If I make my sorrows private. If I dial down the breakdowns. If I box up my heart and put him in a room with it. If I pull him close to my shirt so he can get a good taste. If I let love barrel down. If I stop being quicksand. If I wasn’t so fucking careless.

I used to do this thing when I left the house. I patted my pants to make sure I could feel my keys. Maybe I should’ve patted my heart to make sure it was still beating. Who could blame me for believing love could be patted down? That history wasn’t a pain one could so easily account for and diminish?

The one time I wrote publicly about wanting a great love a stranger sent me an email and told me I looked good for my age and, oh by the way, can I fuck your face?

That’s not the kind of great love I had in mind.

But first, this: I packed my bags, torched the joint, and fled the dark country. Did I tell you this story was about betterment?

Everyone loves the comeback kid. But to love the comeback, you have to know the history. But no one really wants to know the history. They scan until they get to the good parts.

Only a short time ago, I thought love was the red, pulpy parts. An organ wrenched from a chest.