selfish

Feelings fleet faster than they arrive, as if something circles in the air pervasively flooding your body with blank ink.

Not black.

Not red.

Blank.

The blankness numbs you; there is no anger and no tears — just the pervading thoughts.

I feel like I have been training my whole life for this…

The acceptance, the shameful presence, the understanding that my fragmented life cannot be compartmentalized, articulated or explained.

The epiphany unravels as I realize he is the heart breaker for all the good reasons,

And I….

I for the bad.

He is the man girls feel comfortable with, attracted to, and imagine infinitely looking forward.

He is longevity.

And I…

I am a sprint.

I am the girl people try to lock down because they are simply fascinated with all the ways they do not understand me.

Im “cool” “fun” and “chill” — but I am no longevity.

I am a heart breaker for the sturdy walls I surround myself with and as they come knocking on my door just to ask me —

“Hey, how are you doing? How was your day?”

I run.

Because longevity deserves to be with longevity. And it is selfish to assume otherwise.