she wanted to love someone—not just to love him, but to love him in a way so complete that she would never have to tell anyone about their love. to be in a love so deep so as to be never scared in the way that ain’t never got to say it ain’t never scared. to be secure in a sphere that didn’t get punctured by someone else’s Tweet or Instagram; she wanted to learn the steps to the eternal dance as if no one was watching.
but what she got was not what she wanted. what she got was the wanting; and the having was full of illusions and clouds and dead dreams—as if 140-character quotes were rules one actually lived by, Earlybird-ed pictures were permanent moments, and her imaginary pain was not transient. what she got was men who consumed conspicuously and re-Tweeted their own compliments and cared less about her requirements than they did about their own leisure. men who were selfish with their lives, selective with their half-truths and never generous in bed. she would think that it was just her, had not the birds of her feather told her of the same men in separate bodies, jobs, cuts of suit and accents. they shared their stories in squawks of great detail, each tale more significant than the last, all ending in a toast to the life that they all had but none of them wanted.
what she had was what she had. and she wanted to fog her mirrors some more, so she screamed #fuckyourfilters and un-followed the men, then blocked the men, then set her profile to private—where she stayed, locked up with a list of demands written in silk hairs that grew past her waist and threatened to trip her if she ever dared to move.