I realized long ago that I’m not the type of person that people write love songs about. I’m not even the type of person that people dedicate love songs to, or for that matter even relate to when listening to music.
While that might sound self-deprecating, or seriously jaded, I feel the truth deep within my soul. I’m not, nor will I probably ever be, the main character of a song in which someone professes their endless love, or whatever flowery description of passion vibes over the radio waves. I’m the girl that gets lusted over, but never actually loved. I’m the girl that gets attention, but never sincerely. I’m convenient. I’m vulnerable, and I wear that vulnerability like a light up cloak that draws attention giving moths in in droves.
I am beautifully broken. Everyone wants to “fix me,” or “put me back together.” They want to “show me what I deserve,” but they never want to be the person to stand by my side as I put myself back together and create a me that is stronger, bolder, desirable, loveable. Nope. No, no, no, no, no. They want to solve my problems, but they don’t want to actually love the stronger me. Loving the stronger me would mean that I’m no longer vulnerable, dependent, weak, or submissive. Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the fun in no longer being the “hero” in my story?
The truth is though, I don’t need a hero. I need a hand, and a heart to help me through my challenges. I need someone to help me hold the flashlight, but I’m fully capable of producing the light, and knowing where to shine it myself.
The problem is, I want to be the heart of a love song. I long to be desired without boundaries, without constraints. I dream of being thought of when a powerful love song rocks the radio waves. I dream of waking up to a play list that’s dedicated to showing me how cherished I am. I crave the warmth of a lover dancing me across the floor to a song that beats with our hearts. I just hope that if my dreams every come true, I’ll be able to believe in my reality.