I Am In Love With A Spell Called Reciprocity

There is nothing so humiliating as discovering that you're playing on the seesaw,

all by yourself.

Sure, it might feel liberating at first, to be able to make your own decisions as when to ascend and when you feel like coming down. But that is an illusion. Trust me, after a little while it gets pretty old having to do all the work by yourself

and why do you look so damn sad all the time anyways?

Because, fuckwad, you might add with a twinge of annoyance, playing on the seesaw

by yourself

is like becoming a famous writer but then never being able to write again.

The costs outweigh the benefits.

I see, I see, they say and take a sip from their mochaccinos.

But unfortunately they don't as you waste your time trying to explain exactly the way that it is:

How you sit there while the snow slowly seeps into your lacerated shoes, and you sit there for days at a time, forgetting that there is NOBODY else there to propel you into the frigid air.

How, when you eventually manage to plant both your feet on the ground and push up, and up, and so high above the frozen dirt beneath you, it lasts only a moment before you realize- there is NOBODY there to keep you up that high!

So you come crashing down and make a demented snow angel, hideous with dirt and spit.

And crawl over the matted brush, dragging yourself through fields of white,

lips drier than the heart-moat, whispering over and over again your one true love,

Reciprocity. Reciprocity. Come back to me.

But you are certain by now that Reciprocity has had enough of your jealousy.