If I Were To Date Myself
And sometimes I wonder, if I were to date myself, would I?
‘Nay!’ is the first thing I can think of.
Is it the quirks, or the foul habits? Like, no, I don’t drink or smoke. I do get high on ideas and imagination, though.
The last time I went out with friends, I dropped a whole glass of soda on my pants. I also eat a bit too fast – is that okay for a date night?
I have been accused of snoring by my mother, a habit I get from – surprise, surprise – my mother. Would you sneak out of the bedroom in the middle of the night? I’m scared of sleeping alone.
I binge watch Disney movies on my free days. Would you mind watching me as I sing along to every song from Frozen and Beauty and the Beast there is?
Also, honey, I write. Which means you will have to give a part of yourself to everyone – because who do you think would star in my writing if not you, duh.
And I have this habit of asking way too many questions. I say I’m just curious. They say I am a pain in the arse. Or no, maybe it’s just the absolute unwillingness to put up with generic shit.
I know I’m a difficult person. So difficult sometimes that if I were to date myself I would say, “No, thank you very much.
But maybe it’s not what it looks like to people. Maybe I am just afraid of putting myself in a position where I can see myself, all deep, and dark, and hideous.
I don’t want to judge myself.
After being judged by the whole world for everything that I do, I don’t fancy being judged by myself too.
It’s not dark when you don’t know it is. It’s dark when you open your eyes and see a blanket of all black and nothingness.
I want to keep my eyes shut.
There’s way too much of dark and void inside me and it scares me. It scares me because I know how it is. I am frightened of dating myself, of looking at myself from someone else’s perspective. I have seen the ugly to my beautiful. I have seen the mess to my composed. I have seen myself deeper than they normally dive. For a person who’d rather think than do, it isn’t surprising, you see.
You can love my beauty, the small voice and hesitant smile and distant eyes, but I can’t. You think I look pretty when I am quiet, but if I told you what I have been thinking of, darling, you will never dial my number again. You think my voice is sweet. You don’t know, however, what it takes me to keep it from cracking.
You think I just get morose sometimes, what you don’t know is that I am a disaster waiting to happen, my insides are filled with years of disappointments and memories that I would rather forget, that I think there’s so much evil in me that even your love cannot consecrate me.
You’re too perfect for my broken self.
While you smile and kiss me and fall in love with me, I can’t, honey.
I just know myself too well.