And so what? Yes, more men have fallen in love with me that I can count on two hands but I don’t need thirteen lovers and I didn’t want most of them. I am the wave that keeps going back to sea, and they are the shore that can’t make me stay. But I don’t want their clammy eyes and sandy promises, the way their eyes dance like coral underwater when they listen to me speak. I don’t want random Brazilian men to ask me out at traffic lights. I don’t want men I met a couple of times a couple of years ago to message me when they’re bored. I don’t want to be given a wreath of shells on our first date; I’m not a fucking nymph. I don’t want a lover I could love that could love me back in Berlin. I don’t want a lover I love that I think loves me back but refuses to be with me down the street. I don’t want an intense, crazy lover that tells me he loves me after six days and then disappears. I don’t want a lover that falls in love with me before he meets me and has sent me enough messages for each hour we’ve known each other. Yes, I am lucky that men fall in love with me. Oh, it does wonders for the ego. Love is a wonderful gift and I must be grateful. Men have been infatuated with me since I was seventeen oh there’s something about you oh you’re different oh i don’t understand how he had gold in his hands and let it go oh if you were mine oh oh oh I’ve heard it all so many times and it makes me want to scream. The only fucking difference between the men I left and the ones that left me is opportunity. Men fucking adore me as long as I’m always rushing back to the ocean. Fuck you and your pedestal. Fuck you for making me feel like a bitch because I don’t love you back. Fuck you for choosing the idea of me over the real me. And fuck you, Irony.