Just Another Midwestern Girl’s Broken Heart
She was told that a man would come with flowers and beautiful words, lingering stares, and a tender, heated touch.
He would come with kisses that left her struck, shaky and yet so, so safe. He would bring muscle and fire and a determined mission to protect her. He would build the house and she would make it into a home.
Country love songs on the radio wove themselves like running wild wind through cornfields and pulled through her hair like steady comforting fingers. They’re coming. The one.
She will find somebody and be they’re someone, their only one. They’ll say all the things she needs to hear and dance with her in the kitchen during the thunderstorms with her wine and his beer and jokes and endless romance. Simple. Never too much and always just enough.
She honored the heartbreak when it didn’t come. Word after word she scribbled in composition notebooks expressing her woe — so much woe. Endless wallowing woe, cherished pain in the name of love, relentless fixation on the belief in something she read about but never saw up close.
Desperate, pleading, begging, obsessive desire for a completed soul to make you whole and receiving the promised love they said would come. And then it doesn’t come and shes left to ask, “What is wrong with me? Am I unloveable? Am I not worthy or enough for passion, for commitment, for lingering eyes and kisses during kitchen dances?” She was told a man would come.
