Sometimes, they aren’t in love with me.
They think that they’re in love with me but they aren’t.
Other people aren’t mad libs whose blank spaces are feverishly populated by my projections.
Other people know their feelings better than I do.
What I do know is that some people love me because I’m the closest thing to something that they want for themselves. And having me close means that it’s theirs by association:
Queerness, mentors, chosen family, confidence, community, self-awareness, vulnerability…. They can have these things, too. It’s just scary to reach by yourself when another body can be the bridge.
These people don’t get that I will always fail them, and they will always be left wanting because my things are never theirs. And I’m not an answer, just a woman.
I don’t dare say these things to them. But I feel it— registering in my blood pressure spikes, centimeters I peel away, the unintentional jab I throw because I keep suppressing my discomfort.
I hurt myself to protect someone else’s ’ feelings. and then I wonder why I always implode in the same circumstances. There’s no way to give them the woman they want and give me myself. It’s a truth my jaw hurts to chew on.
Marisa McGrath 