No wonder every guy I date is always just out of a relationship with no interest in finding another. Until they do, and it’s inevitably not me. I’m the layover. Good for a screw before they move on to find someone else to validate themselves. I’m just a dick with a person attached, my emotions, my thoughts, my inner beauty of no consequence once their is spilled and I take a hint to leave. The black boy has served his function.
I am nothing but a symbol to them. A BBC. Or an exotic treat they’ve never experienced before. Or the friend they always wanted. I am idea, not a person to these white boys denying their privilege while exploiting it for their own good. They don’t know me, and why should let them? I let a boy in and he treated my heart as another mirror to gaze wistfully into, Narcissus drowning in his all-consuming vanity that will fade, crumble and die like the love I had for him.
Like the patience and time I have for all of these walls and walls of boys staring out lost, if staring out at all for the headless can’t see. Fleeting from one meaningless hookup to another. Decapitated as well,I too will fleet. Because I have nothing else to give but my body, which is all anyone seems to want anyway – if they want that at all. For me, love is dead, it doesn’t exist. A series of experiences have long had me believe as much, but finding and fighting for the last and only chance I had proved that love is just a dream I once had, a song I once heard or a movie I once saw. I’ve given up.
I’ll slowly and painfully demolish the romantic inside of me, which has done nothing but ruin me, kept me in a spiral of sadness and confusion, and has lied to me in hopes of making me feel like a real boy. But you can’t love a piece of wood, so how and why could the wood ever love you back?