Problem Children

I have a real gift for picking the wrong person. The ones already in relationships, already leaving, already broken in ways that should be obvious red flags. But there’s something seductive about that kind of damage - it reads as depth, as something you might actually reach if you try hard enough. So I pour myself in. The meals at strange hours, the discretion, not making scenes, pretending I don’t see what everyone else sees immediately. Then it ends. Tears. Another sheet set destroyed. The same cycle again.

I know exactly what I actually want, though, and it’s straightforward. A real relationship with actual affection, real pleasure, good sex. Someone I’m not ashamed to be with. Someone with taste in books and music, someone who can spell. Because spelling errors bother me in a way that signals something deeper about how a person moves through the world.

Gender doesn’t matter to me. What matters is someone who faces life directly, who actually wants to build something, who understands this is about moving through the nights together - the streets, the clubs, the bed - without apology.

I deserve better than this. Not because I’m special. Because I show up.