Home Poetry Is My Take-Out Ready?

Is My Take-Out Ready?

by Stephanie Alfaia

I met my soulmate on Memorial Day. And yet. I knew he would walk. His big eyes were beautifully blue, filled with deep sadness like the depths of unexplored oceans. I searched for myself in his eyes, only to catch a glimpse what looked like a reflection of his body trying to swim up, out. He smiled at me, excited, the corners of his lips eager with possibility. But. It didn’t reach his eyes. The barrier was very clear, even standing in a bar filled with sticky sand bodies and sun scorched skin, I knew he couldn’t love anyone. Not until he learned he deserved love. Looking at the sky, I accepted the challenge – if not in this lifetime, perhaps in the next. You see, the more self aware you become, the faster you learn most aren’t bothered to be… better. Evolution stopped ten thousand years ago.

The second his message came through, I felt hungry again. I ate dinner with gusto for the first time in weeks. Comfort food. There’s comfort in rejection. Most of us fight for more but settle for the love we think we deserve. The bar I’ve set resembles a plastic limbo pole begging, how low can you go?

There’s power in fixing broken things. Suddenly you’re playing God, mending Ken dolls with your bandages whispering, there there honey, I’ll make everything better. But then. We all settle for the love we think we deserve. And so he walks away because. But, “you’re an amazing person with incredible energy, personality and drive… but I’m not in a place to give this what it deserves,” he says hiding behind the bright blue light.

When do you know? I know in 20 minutes. You see, it’s called gut feeling. When you’ve spent so long with yourself you know exactly what you want, and can recognize it from a mile away. If you hone it right, the gut predicts. I chose to ignore emotionally unavailable floating in my belly when he spent hours sharing details on how she left him, or scared, depending what language you speak.

Cowardice. Backed by fear, right? And yet. It’s become our generation’s easiest cop-out. Self-blame and suddenly you’re safe behind it’s not you it’s me. Uncertainty. Heck, I’m the world’s worst decision maker. But. I’d rather not say than not mean what I say. Words are so powerful, once spoken they vibrate into the air forcing intention into motion. His promises were unactionable. The irony.

“Move on,” says all. “Can I check back in?” he adds. The dating transaction. Must remain Switzerland and show zero emotion, or else you lose the battle of loneliness. Or win, depending on how you look at it. Who wants to lose? I’m no loser. And yet. Vulnerability, to yield, means to lose… nowadays anyways. Fuck it. I won’t grow cold. Bitter? Maybe for a few days. They say you break a bad habit in 10 days. And yet. I’m still habitually addicted to potential walk-aways. Take-out for a man. But they’re never ready to go.

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