Bittersweet Tirade

I wish I could sit here and list off all of the things guys do that make me swoon, but honestly, I’ve only ever experienced the pain that comes with so-called love and the misery one can bring once you’ve expressed your feelings. While most of my peers have gone through a numerous amount of relationships (or should I say, “relationshits,”) I’m always stuck in pause mode of liking someone, then being either disgusted by their immaturity or froze out, which let’s be honest is probably God’s way of saying, “Run as fast as you can.” I think I deserve a little tirade time on all the shitty things guys put you through (and guys, I know women do this too) with the luck I’ve had. I regret nothing.


 

The way they avoid you and play hard to get, meanwhile you’re wondering when the fuck they’re going to grow up. I’m 26. I’m too old for this shit.

The way they look you up and down as if you’re a piece of meat to be won.

The way they put all of the blame on you for everything their lives are lacking.

The way they count every mistake, every flaw, then throw it in your face at the worst possible time.

The way they insinuate things and expect you to catch on. I’ve caught on earlier than I needed to.

The way they try to complement you but it only turns out to sound like an insult.

The way they just sit back and let you do all the work. Fuck chivalry. Fuck romance. Fuck how a woman is supposed to be treated. This is a game between dogs.

The way they never make a move.

The way they run and hide when it’s time to talk about feelings.

The way the words “moving forward” scare them into fits of rage and all they want to do is hide under a filthy blanket with the shades drawn and some illegal vice to keep them grounded.

The way the word “love” is thrown around only for their benefit.

The way they look at you when you tell them you’re not like the other girls. The way they look at you when they figure out it’s true.

The way they look at you when they realize you can’t do anything for them. Step 1: Open Trash. Step 2: Dump girl in and slam the lid.

The way they tease you into thinking you’re special only to realize that they do that to every girl.

The way they just walk away.

The way they don’t look back, even if they wanted to. Because that would show an emotion. That would show that this is worth something. That would show maturity.

The way every single one of them has cracked my heart into the tiniest fucking pieces.

The way that I gathered them all together, sewed it back up, and wrote about it.

The way they despise me for that.

The way they see how ugly they are.

The way mirrors reflect on screens.

The way pain heals and garbage rots.

The way settling smells while the roses bloom.

The way victory tastes.

Sweetness.

Pure sweetness.

The way none of this seems to matter anymore with a little time, patience and grace.

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