What’s Lurking in the Friend Zone, The Molting, & Unresolved by Irina Frolova
What’s Lurking in the Friend Zone
I bet he thought he was a nice guy.
Friendly and attentive. Nice to talk to.
For a while there
I used to think so too.
Until his attention, creeping
into the late hours of the night,
followed me to bed, like a ghost
of good intentions.
Message after message. Oversharing
at a rate proportional to my unease.
He might as well have sent a dick pic.
But, of course
it was all a misunderstanding. Yes,
he is married but not all married men
are husbands. Some are more like flat-mates,
as good as single!
He had misunderstood
my signals: awkward pauses, changes of topic.
He is not a mind reader, after all
women are such mysteries
to be unraveled, one defensive layer
at a time, ever so nicely.
Wait till you turn forty,
they say. It’s like magic.
I am well on my way
shedding old skin,
scale by scale,
marvelling at its thinness.
Or guessing at all
what people might think of me.
What they do is enough.
So long, size small,
you dainty thing,
taking up as little space
outside my head as deemed desirable.
Fuck off, fuckability.
What did you ever do for me?
you were only really fun for my,
as it turned out, insignificant others.
A pair of tight jeans
does not make me feel like hot shit
alive with sex appeal
and “self-love”. Or was it lust?
Love feels much quieter,
like mid-autumn sun
savoured over a coffee,
between all the things I have to be.
I jump into writing with both feet,
the kind of passion
between me and the world
where time consists not of minutes
but ideas, bitter-sweet
in their vastness.
I want to move on
from the middle of this nowhere
to other eyes, hands, lips.
But I also want to stay,
muddy the waters,
make it seem like there is more
Make you wonder
where I was last weekend,
who I did last night; search
my body for hints,
look to it for validation
of your relevance. Dig deep
for the foundation of us.
Is it being eroded
bit by bit, the way my hope in its wild form
was sculptured, trimmed, smoothed
to finally fit neatly
into a small square
somewhere in the far corner
of your calendar, never in pen.
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