A Pseudo-Eulogy for Mr. Gone Too Soon

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Image by Andrew Martin from Pixabay

He joked hoping that I don’t write about him. He knew me too well. That’s how I put all of these situations to death. Sadly, it’s time to deliver his eulogy. He deserves to catch these hands.

Because I’m tired of missing him. I really am.

Because if it’s the right love story, I won’t ever write about it. It exists in the Universe as is. It’s a continual conversation with the Creator. All of the love stories I write are fictional. All of my real-life love stories are monsters deserving of a gruesome death. So I killed them by proxy, giving them to God to deal with. I’m not strong enough to end things with anybody.

We met in a moment where I wanted to prove something to myself. I developed a weakness to affection when life gets rough. Hearing a man’s voice makes me forget whatever I’m dealing with. It’s the medicine to my melancholy. It’s dangerous, though. Because you end up reaching out to demons you thought to be exorcised. Truth is that they never leave, they lay waiting in the wings for you to summon their name. They’re the red eyes peering at you in the darkness waiting on you to turn your back to them, only to come from behind and cuddle you into submission because it feels good to be made felt good.

Referring to (some) men as demons is a necessary stretch.

He wasn’t a demon though. He was honestly one of the sweetest people I’ve met in a while. He is one of the sweetest people I’ve met in the world. But he wasn’t right for me at the time and I hated that God made me drop what feels good for what is good.

God is funny in that way. I remember the first night before our date being racked with guilt. I heard this voice within my mind calling me a “bitch” and telling me to not go. Holy Spirit would never call me that. I didn’t know what to do. I kept saying “you deserve good things, Ciara. You deserve good things.” So I went and had a good time and felt seen in a way that I hadn’t in a very long time. Still, I felt lost.

To be found. I realized over time that I used men to be seen. Especially as the girl who felt invisible. It had been six years since I had been seen. I’ve been hiding since my Dad died. I’ve been hiding since I’ve been here.

I hate being seen, I do. Coming from the woman who currently has purple hair. I would rather be left alone. I don’t like it. Some nights, it burns to be alone.

So you do what you can to not feel alone. There’s an irony that my breaking point would come on the weekend of my Dad’s birthday. It’s cosmic.

Part of me feels as if I gave up too early. Part of me feels like you only live one. Part of me doesn’t want to forget a man’s touch because that feels finite to me and it shouldn’t. I have such a morbid sense of sensuality and I hate it. I remember sitting in my room and cussing out every dude I messed with for playing games with me. They all caught the wrath of a Ciara who realized that she wasn’t fully the ain’t-shit party in the relationship.

My homegirl asked me if this allowed me to figure out what I’m really looking for in a partner. Truthfully, it did. I’m not asking for much. There has to be a concept of Jesus. There has to be a concept of kindness. Nice ain’t the same as kind, know that. You have to make me feel safe. You can’t be immune to touch. You ain’t afraid of an ugly cry coming from yourself every once in awhile because bad things happen.

Not to say that the last person didn’t show those things. We never got that far for me to find out.

And that eats me alive.

That’s the thing about missing people. Missing someone devours your soul. You feel as if your life doesn’t quite make sense because they aren’t there. This situation never got that deep.

But he’s fine as hell. As hell.

And I think that’s what influences these emotions. I’ll look at pictures and curse at myself. And I’m tired of that. Why? Because it’s such an empty threat coming from me. I’m chilling. I can’t execute the play I really want. So I have to sit on the bench that God put me on and throw temper tantrums like I’m two-years-old.

I want God to put me in the game. Once.

Homeboy could have ran me up and down the field and I would have happily obliged. He was — is — that fine.

That’s why it pains me to bury this, to bury all of what I feel about him and move on. The flames inside of my party ain’t ready to be extinguished. It feels too good to think about the ‘what ifs’. It reminds me that I have a pulse.

Heartbeats stop. Life is finite. So I guess it’s time.

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