All these men couldn’t hold a candle to my depth

Black woman
I’ve spent my entire weekend ignoring men. Men that I’ve allowed into my world knowing within the first 5 minutes of talking to them, that they won’t do it for me. However, I’m still a sucker for that free meal and drank life, although I am fully capable of paying for my own. All of our bank accounts can use a break every once in a while, right?

But still, I can’t figure out why I continuously do this…entertain these men (or let them entertain me). Is it because I’m bored? Impatient? Seeking attention?

25. 29. 31 (two of them are 31). 37. 41. Even one upwards of 60. There was no point in me even asking the exact age after that point. I should be ashamed of myself. It’s…a…problem. And no, I’m not having sex with them. Well, maybe one, but that’s beside the point.

Am I seriously interested in any one of them? Absolutely not.

So, why?

Why am I not convinced that my time is precious?

Why do I feel like the only time I’m sexy is in the eyes of a man?

Why is a date the only time I even put forth effort into my appearance? Mind you, I usually end up feeling like I wasted a damn good outfit anyway. Nonetheless…WHY is that the only time I feel worthy?

I can’t figure out why it’s not during effortless moments of looking at my bare face, that I simply feel beautiful within.

My happiness…My self-worth is so dependent upon the desire of a man, even when I know he’s a waste of my valuable time. A waste of my energy.

And yet, my insecurities won’t even allow any compliments that they speak to penetrate into my ears and find their way to my soul.

So what does that mean when you want the admiration, but don’t know how to appreciate it?

Is it because I am broken? Every kind word or gesture thrown my way slips right through the cracks of my beaten spirit. Broken people…hurt people right? Is this why I play with men?

I rip these men into little puzzle pieces. Then, I steal some of these foreign bits hoping that it will complete my own shattered image.

Pieces of their eyes hoping their vision will help me see that I am beautiful.

Pieces of their tongues so that I can speak to my own intellect because, quite frankly, these men couldn’t hold a candle to my depth.

Pieces of their hearts so that I, too, can be vulnerable at the thought that love really exists instead of being this walking pessimist.

Pieces of their minds so I can think that highly of myself because they think that I am untouchable. They actually think I’m the hot commodity.

That I’m too good for them. And I am.

That they don’t deserve me. And they don’t.

But, do you see that vicious cycle? The more I speak to what they tell me, the better I feel about myself. Yet it’s still not enough though.

And yes, I could end this with some inspirational words of wisdom on how I’ve got it all figured out on how to fix myself, but I won’t because then I’d be lying.
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