To you, my soulmate (for the nth time, I lost count by the way) if I will ever have the chance to meet you, these are the things I want to tell you:
You are such a pain in the ass, you know that?
No? Now you know.
I really want to elbow you in the solar plexus. Or knife hand strike that carotid artery of yours.
Karate chop baby. (Imagine me doing it. Fun.)
Yes. I don’t want you breathing.
Simple. I want you dead.
Guess you didn’t see that coming huh?
Bet you’re expecting the flowery, cheesy love confession eh?
Well, I’ve had enough writing that, never works anyway.
You’re still not here.
But I just want you to know: I hate you.
Still not romantic, eh?
Before you think I’m sick or I’ve lost my marbles do you know how many times you’ve broke my heart?
No idea?
Same here.
I lost count how many times.
It’s like you’re performing an open heart surgery but instead of saving me all you ever did was take it out of my chest, throw it on the ground and stomp on it with your feet. Over and over again.
And I hadn’t even met you.
Am I making sense now?
Still no?
Do you have any idea how hard it is to defend myself against the world?
Been called names babe. From “The woman living behind the century” to Prude. To cold. To frigid. And my personal favourite (sarcasm) Old maid. A spinster. I’m not even that old yet!
See how cruel this world is?
Guess it’s my fault for not hopping from one bed to another eh?
Not blindly trying to find prince in a world full frogs.
Not exploring.
Not experimenting.
Not living.
Not trying.
Not taking chances.
I can’t help but wonder if you’d done the same thing babe (I’ll call you babe I don’t have an idea what your name is, I hate it but I don’t have a choice here, do I?) going to club each night. Drowning your sorrow from that alcohol desperately trying to find me and hoping you’ll see me against the sweaty body on the dancefloor and end the night with someone you barely knew and wake up each day feeling empty. Disappointed.
And satiated. Huh. Had a fill. Sureeeeely. Still, I know that was before me (and this might not be true) I can’t help this raging jealousy within me.
I am just a human after all.
And you might say you are just a man.
That is always your line, right.
Just a man.
An excuse you always think you’re getting away from that.
Men. Sigh.
But that is your choice.
Along with the others like you trying to find their other halves that way.
Who are we to judge?
(But I still want to kill you for that.)
And this is my choice.
This is my life and this is how I want to live.
I’ve made my bed. Now, I have to lie on it.
Do you have any clue how frustrating it is to defend you against them?
That soulmate is not real.
Stop living in fantasy.
You’re no real princess.
And you don’t even deserve to have a prince.
Or the Knight in Shining Armour.
I don’t want to be a Princess.
I don’t need a Prince nor a Knight.
I just need you.
Defending myself against the world, that I can take. Endure is the right word.
But defending you against myself? Now that’s the hardest babe.
Do you have any idea how painful it is to wait for someone you don’t even know exists?
The ever present doubt that you’re real is so hard to take.
It’s like driving blindly.
I am lost babe.
Your absence is so loud I hear it screeching like a tire in my ears.
A deafening silence.
Kills me every single time.
And my friends playfully tagging me at every “Forever alone” memes–not helping babe.
And my mother always nagging at me go find some stud and reproduce.
Well, not the exact words but still.
She’s getting desperate babe. I might find myself being sold to some man I don’t even like.
Or find myself being dragged at my own wedding.
With a gun pointed in my head.
Shotgun marriage. Literally.
Don’t laugh I’m being serious. Sigh.
I know I’m being desperate here.
Pathetic if I may add.
But desperate time calls for desperate measure.
So if I have to threaten to kill you if you don’t show yourself then so be it.
Just give me an ounce, just an ounce hope that you’re real.
Give me strength.
Faith.
That you’ll find me.
Just don’t tell me you’re not even born yet.
I know age doesn’t matter but still don’t.
That’ll make me a cradle snatcher.
So.. Ready to see me and be killed?
And If I would be given a chance to meet you
then yes, I’ll refrain from doing that punch and karate chop I’ll embrace you instead, so tight you’ll find it hard to breathe.
See? Same result. Just kidding.
And let me think about it– the wanting to kill you.
After all, you have forever to prove to me you’re not worth killing right?
****Photo by luizclas from Pexels
