Dear Lover,
Sometimes, I don’t find you so dear. I informed you briskly at the beginning of this thing, that I, although female, cannot bear the burden of relationships on the breadth of my hips, and that I, even with the support of the most fabulous bra, cannot hold the weight of your heart upon my chest, as I only have room for my own organs.
I, as woman, don’t always order love with my relationships, but take sugar with my coffee. Sometimes, I need a casual affection, some laugher, some attention, but I can’t make the space to love full-time. We can meet for tea time, and share smiles over honeyed biscuits.
Sometimes, love isn’t so greedy and every other Friday craves a Guinness draft, and honey barbeque wings while balancing on a high stool at the bar, and maybe sometimes, a long ride in your car. I’m not so needy that I need you 40 hours a week. When we speak, it’s like speaking into a tunnel. My words get stuck in the funnel of your ears and are never granted access to the emotional part of your brain.
Dear Lover, I don’t find you so dear. I cannot bear the burden of a relationship with you in the sweeping river of my pulse. Let my thighs be your guides. You are welcome to read between them.