What is love, in these modern times, dedicated by cellphones and lives lived through creations of ourselves that couldn’t be further away from the truth? Drawn by phone conversations, kisses at the end of the sentence, can something real truly sustain the challenges of our real lives?
If you love someone let them go, and if it’s real, they’ll come back, they say. But what if I know that it was real, despite them never coming back to me? My soul is broken and bruised, I don’t know if I have faith left inside of me. My dreams have soaked up every ounce of me, demanding every strain of energy. Now, having the life I always wanted, I mourn my losses and sacrifices like a widow worships the image of her dead husband every night at dinner. What is all this worth, I keep wondering myself. The Prada in the closet, hands full of metals, hair greased falling over the shoulders of my leather jacket whilst scrolling through the Instagram of happily engaged couples. Twenty-two seemed to be my farewell to fun, my life started to transition and I wonder whether I have missed the stop to grow up. Of course, like everyone else, I want to love. I want it so deeply, it hurts my stomach. But every time I find it, I let it go, I depart onto new adventures, and it never runs back to me. Finding myself crying to the prettiest views in a hotel room, “this is the life I wished for”, I keep internally screaming to myself.
I am tired of being the sad girl on the internet, I am tired of leaving no traces behind and I am tired of being the exciting one, not the loved one. “He was into you, cause you were exciting, he knew that you’d leave, so he wanted to pursue the girl he can’t have”, a friend told me in a commentary about my last dating experience, “you thrilled him, you drew him in as you do with everyone”, she continues in the cold white light of the bathroom. She pointed out my talent to continuously pick the ones who are scared of being a part of my life, but yet the ones who are attracted to the messy characters that make their life seem a little more exciting than the mundanity of their everyday blues. All it takes to draw them in is a smirk, more charming than anything they have ever seen before, just to end in a minefield a few weeks later. Taylor Swift wrote 30 songs about a romance that went to the grave after three months, I write countless poems about every soul I have taken the clothes off. It gets better with time, my friend says, not knowing how much I would want him to be here, right next to me, right now. My brain has never been my friend, considering all the impulse buys and bad decisions it did let me take in the past, but when it comes to lovers, it’s cruel, it lets me bleed like a crying baby on the floor, not getting the toy it wants after suffering so long.
In the end, dating apps are nothing but the same as luxury clothing, all they sell to is the notion of hope for a better, more fulfilled, and happier life. Dating apps promise you a love as golden as daylight when in reality, you swipe yourself into a burning red fantasy. Swiping equals creating the perfect partner, it vanishes all disadvantages of a potential lover off the table until reality creeps in. A luxury garment promises you the notion of belonging, which for some people, is the total equivalent of a better life. The imagination of a Prada scarf evokes happiness when in reality, it objectively does the same job as a thrifted scarf- it keeps the throat warm but does not protect you from anxiety and panic rushes. What the Prada scarf is the same thing you get on one of these apps- it’s excitement in its purest creation, it’s what our dopamine deprived brains are longing for in an honest moment. It both works like ibuprofen, it satisfies the brain instantly but does not heal in the long run.
I should have told him before that he will become the subject of all my poems now, the memory of his touch is the blueprint on my skin. I tried to wash him off, but every other night at 3 a.m, I find myself scrolling through his Instagram, wondering if he ever does the same with mine. I should have told him that I’d be this way, I keep thinking. I should have told myself, that we want different things, I keep screaming. I have always been this way, charming them in with the smile of someone who just came from outer space, and forever just visiting. This is a new era, someone new to write about, kicking the last one off the imaginary throne. And just like the Prada, it sold me nothing, but an illusion, that looks different in my life than it did on the screen.