I swim, often alone, into the tireless tide. Most of them can only go so far, most give up after the shallows. It is not me that is demanding. It is what is demanded of them. The truth. Their truth. Perhaps it is the gravity defying realm of water that disallows repression. Perhaps it is the light refracted, pushing a kaleidoscope of reality into their eyes whether they like it or not. Most of the time they don't like it. They swim back.
They say things I don't understand like 'I don't want anything serious'. As if life is only made up of happiness and all conversations are actually soundbites, tweets, meaningless memes. As if feelings are dirty, heavy, dragging entities. As if one can just decide not to have or to have. As if they didn't start saying something else entirely, create something, before a volte-face.
Then there are the ones that say they 'would have', 'if only' and sweeten the death arrow in an attempt to keep things courtly. The thing is.. after their exit.. they leave me in the waters alone too and stop even watching me from the shore.
The politics of desire walk alongside any woman whether she engages or not. There are men whose unconscious does not take over until too late, until you're hooked, usually once then – like a fish on the wire.
'But I always throw them back,' he said.