Isn’t it funny how we sometimes assess our ability to be loved by the way that the men who used to love us no longer choose to love us anymore? Maybe it’s because I’m single and all of the men I consider to be my important relationships are currently involved and able to love women who are not me after leaving me, no longer inspired by the love I gave, no longer able to return or reciprocate affection, love was changed, love died, love was not something they cared to try.

Not anymore.

Because of me.

But because of she, there is now a we, a we that doesn’t include me. Me. I am alone. I feel I am strong, beautiful, intelligent, but jealousy – it creeps into my heart sometimes, chokes it until its left gasping out a beat that can barely be heard, let alone felt. Whatever it does, in its wake, I have to remind myself, no Sheriden, happy people are not jealous. Single people are not jealous. Happy single people are not jealous. They have their queens, but me, I am reminded that I am without a prince, a king. The crown I wear on my head is still a crown, though tilted forward in a bow of shame, because pride does not live where there is no accompaniment or acknowledgement of a highness of my own.

I use the fact that they don’t love me as a means to render myself unlovable. I don’t mean to, but sometimes find myself saying I’m not meant to be loved for longer than a night, for longer than a month, for more than a year. I’m not meant to be a girlfriend. I’m not be real for someone else. Just an idea. Never the soul, just the body, only flesh, not my bones, not the very core of my being. I’m not meant to be “it”.

But underneath those screaming inadequacies, I hear the whisper of my true self who negates those beliefs. She’s getting stronger. One day, she’ll devour those cries completely and swallow them whole. That’s when certainty will make its way to me once more. And I’ll be lovable without the aid of the love of the future or the un-love of the past. I’ll remember love in the way I walk, the way my lips shape words, the way my heart soars when I’m listening to a great song, or the way my soul feels when I’m surrendering to a great dessert. What’s a queen without her king? Why, still a Queen, silly girl.

Sheriden