We swap memes at midnight about emotionally unavailable men.
You send me a photo of a sad cow staring into the void.
Caption:
“Men are sooo hot. I wish they were good people.”
I reply with:
“I want to be in my soft girl era,
but all the men on Earth are already in theirs. Someone’s gotta be the man.”
We laugh like hyenas.
Then cry like Victorian orphans.
Then laugh again,
because our coping mechanism has a sense of humor.
It’s a cycle.
Like his excuses.
Like our hope.
You say,
“He’s perfect, I just wish he’d get a job,
or a plane ticket,
or a clue.”
I nod, sad-react,
then go cry over my own emotionally constipated twin flame
and spiral, trying to analyze a “k.”
Accountability? Never heard of her.
This man’s so lost.
He makes me feel so much, mostly that:
I need a therapist,
and maybe an exorcist.
We are allowed
to want a love that holds us, too.
We are allowed to say:
“I want arms, not excuses.”
“I want presence, not potential.”
“I want a man, not a project.”
We compete in the mental Olympics of excuses:
He’s going through a lot right now.
He said he’s never felt this way before.
He doesn’t want to hurt me.
Which is wild-because he’s doing great at it.
We know these by heart- different boys, same script.
We’ve got one foot in the fantasy,
one in the group chat,
and zero in reality.
Tending to relationships that live in our heads
because real ones might require
boundaries,
standards,
or walking away.
You say maybe you’ll move.
I say maybe he’ll grow up.
We don’t judge.
We just mirror.
My almost-love reflects your almost-love.
We light candles
at the altar of potential
and call it loyalty,
mistaking comfort for love and devotion.
One day we might wake up.
Or not.
For now,
we sit on opposite ends of the world
and whisper,
“But what if it’s different this time?”
Still, we hold out.
Maybe he’ll change.
Maybe we will.
Maybe delusion is cheaper than therapy
and way more fun with company.
Girl, screw these men
(sadly, not literally. Tragic, I know).
Hey-
if we’re still here in ten years:
waiting for them to wake up,
text back,
or know what they want without needing
four tarot readings and a nervous breakdown
I will be your daddy.
We’ll get matching robes,
buy expensive face masks,
raise each other’s cats.
You’ll paint men out of your system,
I’ll write passive-aggressive poetry.
And if all else fails,
at least we’ll always have midnight memes
and each other.