“She Deserves Better”
This isn’t rocket science, you fool.
Anger sizzles under my skin. I force myself to take a huge breath.
This isn’t right. This can’t be right. How is this….a thing?
“You mess with mine and you get the wolf.” I can feel it now. My hands shake. I’m not even sure how my fingertips keep landing on the right keys.
I hate this shit. Love is such an amazing experience. My inner wolf begs to be unleashed. I can’t, though. He’s got to stay in his cage. We’re in dangerous territory — territory we’ve never trekked before.
She deserves unconditional love. She’s so special. How do you have such an amazing woman and not take care of all of her needs?
How do you just waste such precious time? I don’t get it. I’ve got the urge to punch a wall, but of course, I won’t. I write instead.
She deserves surprise, well-thought-out dates.
She deserves all of the little things like random flowers, little notes of appreciation and love, hand holding where fingers are intertwined, hugs, kisses, and much more.
I can’t stand other men sometimes. Such phenomenal women get hurt because of selfishness, ignorance, and downright cruelty. It makes me — it makes me want to grab a bat and fuck up somebody’s car…or maybe their face. I’m not even a violent person. Hell, I write love stories for a living.
She deserves poems and old-fashioned love letters. She deserves to know how phenomenal she is. In every line, she should be reminded about all the lovely parts that make her herself.
She needs authenticity. She needs someone who recognizes the strong, black woman that she is. She should have someone that will reach up and fix her crown when life knocks it crooked. She needs someone who will never let her forget that she’s a queen.
“Well, B, you seem to know everything. Why don’t you show her?” Hell, maybe I will.
Anger rises to my chest. It almost hurts. I can’t help that I always feel things intensely. I just want to make it better.
“So, do it, B. Make it better. Give her better.”
Can I? I pace back and forth. My hand plays in my hair. Can I show her better? Would she even let me? I don’t know. I want to. I realize that I want to.
We’ll see…