He will save me. He will be my prince charming. He wins where others have failed. And he will look damn sexy doing it. That’s pretty much the pitch I give myself when I meet a guy I like. You know the kind where your heart skips a beat when you see a text from him. He’s the one you thank the heavens for, for he was surely sent as your gift from the gods for not settling for some random boring guy for the sake of “not being alone.” But what happens when the fairy tale comes crashing down. The storm becomes a clear day and everyday life sets in. That’s the part that I’m scared of. The part where I get to see his impatience, his anger, his insecurities. I thought he was perfect. I thought he was incapable of dissapointment. I thought he had alien blood. It’s 12:30 AM and hasn’t text’d me. I know he’s working and he replies right away. But why can’t you text me first, in the middle of your working paper to tell me that you miss me. To tell me that you want me. To make me feel wanted and seen and loved. 💌 How much pressure do I put on him? A lot, in my mind but never out loud of course. Never out in the open. I’m not a psycho nor do I wish to be seen as one. What happened to the part where we can open up about our insecurities, about him having big hands to carry my handful ass. When do we get to show that part. He has a drinking problem. Whiskey is his late night choice. 🍸It keeps him up. And it keeps me in circles. Am I just attracted to the ones who need help? Who didn’t have that motherly attention? Whose fathers taught them self-hate. I wanna help him. My pet project. The one I need in order to function, in order to know who I’m. Who Am I without that job description? Who is he without that label? Will his Saturn moon open up enough to me to let me in?