The Competition

Over and over again I am not chosen. Over and over again I want real love. I have been the wife and the mistress. I have been the girlfriend to beautiful women. I have been the daughter to a jealous mother. I have been the best friend holding a place for an eventual husband and kids.

Men stay in sexless relationships and flirt with me. They don’t choose their partner, they don’t choose me, they don’t choose themselves.

Men have stayed with me and flirted with others. The glacial divide widening. They don’t choose me, they don’t choose another, they don’t choose themselves.

Women tell me they love me. They love me, just less than they love men. I become the competition. They claw out my eyes in spite of the words “poly” or “triad” or “partner” or “love”. I become part of their Faustian bargain. An unwilling, unwitting, participant, in a religion I don’t even believe in.

And so I feel rage. At the bottom of that rage is the deepest sadness. The sadness of never being chosen. Or maybe just never being connected with. Never being seen. Of having my heart ripped out by men and women alike. By friends, lovers, partners, parents, siblings. Of people competing with me in a contest I didn’t sign up for and don’t want to participate in.

So I lay down in the middle of the road and let the cars run over me. You win. Everyone wins. I’ll just be here becoming flatter. Eventually my clothes will meld into the asphalt. And people can run over me for all of eternity in their race to win the competition.

The empty meaningless competition.