it hurts to be a black and romantic woman

This one guy once whispered that he loved me, but he never had the most important thing when loving: the courage to say it out loud. He was too confused, too unsure of what he wanted, and he passed that confusion on to me. I didn’t choose to like him, but there was nothing compelling me to insist on us because he was not sure of anything, and I already have enough uncertainty in my life.

Love was very far away from me and this other guy. But he said he was truly into me, and always apologizing when we couldn’t go out, claiming he never had time for such things — until he found a girlfriend.

This other guy loved my body. He never asked me on a proper date. Just that one time we went to this bar, but it didn’t take long for him to avoid holding my hand because everyone knew him there. So he asked me to go to his house. He always emphasized that he couldn’t commit to anyone at the moment. Then, he started dating someone. She is white. I wanted to ask him: Do you sexualize her as much as you sexualized me? Honestly, I can’t believe I ever considered holding back my dreams, risking everything to be with him, even though he never wanted to be with me.

I could list so many more instances like this with other men I’ve had a thing with. I’ve mourned this feeling before. I’m one whose heart guides every emotion, unable to resist its pull. My chest tightens, and it’s no mere figure of speech. It’s a physical ache, a constriction, as if butterflies were gripped by anxiety within. Each flutter feels like a storm brewing, an ache that reverberates with every breath. I just want to be angry about how being a Black woman means being fated to be replaced, being the second choice, deceived, and hypersexualized. I finally understand that it’s not my fault for being seen as disposable. I have given so much of myself, trying to fit into molds that were never meant for me, trying to earn love and respect that was never freely given.