new neighbors moved in
next door.
I worry about how
they’ll be–who they are
when the day turns
to night and the need
for fake(ness) fades.
cute couple–extra smiley
with matching names.
the dog scrutinizes the
young man–low growls as
he passes by.
I think to myself,
“If she doesn’t like him,
we’re in a world of
trouble.”
I also think,
“You shouldn’t overanalyze
this–it could be okay.”
we’ll see.
the sun does not care
for past inflictions of pain
it’s a love-bringer
you–your back to love
tell me that I’ve lost my spark
the sun says, “untrue”
I believe the sun
it can be trusted with love
my spark is revealed
you shout these untruths
hiding behind your hard heart
I see right through you
I am not of
importance to her–I know this–I
I feel this.
I’m just a blip on an endless
radar of exploration.
I am not a priority.
I am not a priority.
eventually, I’ll have to
find the courage to pursue
someone–anyone who
knows my worth–who appreciates
my existence.
I deserve it.
don’t we all?
Easter is the 42nd, and
I’m still alone–still afraid
to love.
I get tired of hearing,
“it’ll happen, just give it
time.”
“the one will come along.”
“someone is out there
for you,” yet no one has
showed up.
and even if they did,
how ready am I?
fear swims in the pit
of my belly, making it
its home, but I
still want love–still need love.
is that possible?
and I am beholden to her,
bathed in a glossy light
of her intentions.
could she just be flirtatious —
plotting on playing, picking
sides, and pursuing nothing?
I am cautious in her presence,
boldly, she creeps. she creeps.
and when she does, I stand aside
and mimic a child looking for
her lost toy.
I must find it.
it needs me.
I can’t figure her out.
I keep telling myself, “Tread
lightly. Watch yourself.
Be careful.” there could be
danger ahead.
I want this danger. I don’t want
this danger.
this danger is linked to her —
I want her.
But I want to be safe too.
I hear an older church mother
in the back of my mind shouting,
“Pick your poison, baby. Can’t
have your cake and eat it
too!”
And I understand her words of
concern. I know the memory
of her will play on — she knew
what she was talking about.
Age and wisdom and experience.
I ask the dog, “Why me? Why
has she chosen me to
beat around the bush with
when I need consistency and
clarity and comfort?
women know what they’re
doing with their ways. they do.
keepers of lust and desire,
I will not pressure her.
I will remain in a lane
of my own making — happy
to gallivant effortlessly in
a world of her design.
I see what she cannot.
I hear what she cannot.
I do not want to damage
the goods she flaunts in
my direction.
boldly, she creeps. she creeps.
and when she does, I stand aside
and mimic a child looking for
her lost toy.
I must find it.
it needs me.
And I need her.
©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt, Originally published in soliloque via Medium.
A Cornered Gurl 
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