I Do Not Want To Be Loved

I break my own heart every time I realise, I do not want to be loved.

I cannot take it. I am too full of hate and desperation to fill myself with anything else. I am too impatient and bore too quickly. I need to be strung along, like a dog on a leash who adamantly does not want to go for a walk. You must ignore me, open my texts and do not respond. You have to fuck me, not make love. You then have to fuck me around and leave me wanting, begging for more, because wanting is the only thing I have ever known, and begging comes so naturally. Then, and only then, when I am thoroughly hating you and everything you stand for, will I be interested in you. Only then, will you take up space in my mind. Only then will I feel content because I will be uncomfortable. When I am comfortable, when you make me toasted sandwiches in bed on a Sunday or write me love letters, when I am secure in the cage of your arms, then I am bored. I have you. I know I do. There is no chase, no fight for survival, because needing you feels like I’m dying. I am constantly seeking the feeling of being on the brink of death, and only longing will give me that.

This is why, I believe, I attract some of the worst types of men. The narcissist, the type that will only fuck you from the back and watch himself in the mirror the whole time. The older man, who loves “eighteen-year-old pussy” and moans this while he chokes you with both hands. The man in your accommodation who will grab your ass and smirk while your boyfriend sits in the next room, blissfully unaware that the two of you have been having an affair for a month.

It is these men who I attract, and whom I cannot get enough of. Because I do not want to be loved, and these men will never love me. They can only love themselves, and that is the guarantee that I thrive on.

I have been loved. Irrevocably, unconditionally, and beautifully. I am aware of how ‘lucky’ I am. How I should have cherished what I had. And I did. I was content, for a while. Then, as always, the fear creeps in. This stomach clenching fear that I do not deserve this gift I have been given. Because how can anyone love something so irreparably damaged? How can they not see the disgusting creature I am beneath the pretty poems and silk blouses? I feel like barbie, painting on a sanity that cannot stick. I feel insane. Insane for not wanting to be loved, for destroying this happiness I adored for so long.

I break my own heart every time I realise all this. Perhaps, one day, I will come to understand why I feel the way I do, why I act the way I act. For now, I will continue doing all that I know to do; I will write about it. Maybe between the syllables and consonants I will find my answer.

Maybe through words I will one day feel like I want to be loved, because words are the only things I have ever truly loved back.