Whoever's reading this, I pray for your sake you never meet me. No matter how you slice it, I'm a pretty terrible person. I get hopes to soar, like a baby bird ready to take it's first flight, and watch them descend back down to the cruelness of reality. It's a terrible trait to have but, dear reader, I never will claim to be a saint.
"I want the whole nine yards."
A phrase that drifts from my lips so calm and casual. It's not necessarily a lie but it's definitely not an achievable goal. At least, not with the men I talk to. You see, I do want love. I want a house. I want some children. The remark is innocent enough but it's my most dangerous weapon. When I jab men with this proposal, they bleed out commitment. In the puddle that starts to form, I also discover their desires and vulnerabilities. What builds them and breaks them down. Just what I wish to do. Build them up to a father complex with smoke and mirrors, then fan away the idea with the truth; they're not capable of handling it. Not even "it" necessarily. They're not ready to handle me.
I've ruined many relationships this way. I can't even recall the last time a man broke things off with me. It's always been me. I've been the "brave girl" to realize what I was doing and "escape the situation." I put myself into that situation. I take pride in it. The devastation I bring to them. The strings of their hearts visibly breaking shown on their dumbfound faces. It's beautiful. To watch something so lovely decay away. To fall back into old habits. To try and rebuild from the mess I left them in. I guess you could say I have an addiction to wreckage.
