I have been trying to teach a man how to love me for three years.
Teaching a man about love is less about fingers and tongue
and more about untangling fragile egos.
We’re navigating the dark together in a small boat,
dipping our oars into the ink, trying to reach shore.
The map was cryptic when we started and now it is creased
and waterlogged. It is coming apart in our hands.
He is dragging and pulling the water with a powerful stroke,
an athlete approaching the finish line
oblivious to the spectator sitting glumly on the sidelines.
I drum up enough enthusiasm to clap my hands but my eyes are not smiling.
Teaching a man to love you is exactly the same
as teaching yourself that you aren’t worth loving.