No, I’m not doing well

I came here

for art, for energy, for community, for people like me, done with

“accidental” pregnancies and tiny weddings and Trump rallies

and surely, maybe

I’d meet more men

in a city of 700,000.

Bursting with creativity

I came here.

 

Now I’m stuck

in this ugly gray

where walking down the sidewalk in a straight line

is an Olympic sport

and nobody

knows how to drive,

beating back screaming homeless

and rude Chinese ladies

and I didn’t ask for this.

I didn’t fucking ask for this.

 

I’m tired

of mixers, classes,

being proactive,

waiting on men

who remain passive

and I’m twenty-two again

waiting around

waiting still

and nothing

has changed.

 

Meanwhile, my church

pays lip service to loving singles,

all around me married people

making plans, making visits,

making time,

and sure-okay-I-guess-

you’re-invited-but

holy-shit-what

will-we-talk-

about.

 

Stuck

in small talk-

“What do you do?

Did you just move?

How long have you

been coming here?”-

endless meeting

and greeting

conversations repeating

and

no

invites

no

meet-ups

until

I

pick up the phone

I

suggest a spot

I

make the first move

always

the first move

and every

one

after

and they say

I’m welcome,

I’m always

welcome,

caught

in the gulf

between

“Can I come over?”

and

“Come on in.”

 

When

the life changes

that would make me

palatable

feel

so far away

they seem

impossible.

 

When I’m a model

member of my life

stage,

when I’ve

attended

every Bible study

baby shower

class meeting,

still

the prodigal

is welcomed, paraded,

appearance lauded,

“We’re so glad you made it!”

when I’ve-

I’ve been here

the whole

time.

 

“But you have God!”

feels more and more

insulting

like I haven’t trusted

like I haven’t tried

like I haven’t been praying,

like I can’t hear the truth

in what they’re saying:

I have God

because

no one else

wants me.

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