And every time I see a couple walking by me on the streets, holding hands and smiling to each other, secret smiles that light up their eyes, I just want to turn around or avert my eyes and pretend I saw nothing. I feel ashamed, no, I feel threatened by that love, or that affection and adoration on their faces for one another while I am walking by alone. With nobody’s hand in mine, with nobody to steal glances at. And perhaps it would be different if I were walking alone but had somebody, but the fact is I don’t. I probably won’t. So how dare they walk by me and flaunt their happiness. Cuddle and put their hands in each other’s pockets while I have to walk on by, pretending not to notice, but knowing. Knowing that they have something that I want.
I just want to hold his hand.
I just want love, and happiness and a home to call my own. I just want to fight and argue with somebody who cares, who’ll run after me. I just want to be worth the chase, I want to learn how to make people chase.
But really, when I see that couple, I settle into a kind of melancholy. A sadness that stirs from within my heart and takes over again, just briefly, and I want to play sad songs and wallow and write poetry. I want to write tragedy, I want to steal true love from the girl in my imagination and my stories because I don’t have love. But all these people walking on the street holding hands, they have it. They have so much of it, in abundance and shared only with each other while everybody else is watching.
When I see that couple on the subway, standing and giggling and snuggling and pretending not to make it obvious how horny they really are, I have this morbid curiosity. I want to take her place, I want to feel pretty and desired and wanted. I want to slip my hands in his pockets and look up at him and know that he is thinking of how soft and kissable my lips are. And I’m batting my eyelashes and I’m sexy and I am secure in knowing that the look in his eyes is only for me.
That the whole world doesn’t matter and when we’re together, all we need to care about is each other. I want to be wrapped in that kind of comfort, and all from just slipping my finger in his pockets, with his arms snugly around my waist and his lips on mine briefly to steal a kiss.
And every time I hear the word boyfriend I think about how I don’t have one, and how I want one. And all of these damned feelings encroach upon my peace of mind and I think, how dare you use that word but not I, when I am every bit as smart and funny as you. Am I too easy? Too hard? Too ugly? Too busy?
And every single time, I get sad and lethargic, and I seem to slow down and want my bed. I want to cry and wonder at how I let myself go, and if things would be different. If I find happiness, I vow to myself, I will not hold his hand. Not in public, because I know somebody’s eyes will be on me and her heart will be breaking.
Controlled Derangement 