There must be some mistake,I think,
but it’s been days now.
These messages from you,
a thirty four year old stranger.
And I say,
and I say to myself
there are lots of crazies on the internet.
Lots of gold diggers.
People who will say anything
under cover of anonymity.
And so, you started with Hello,
um, how’s your day going?
And I, not used to DM’s,
responded just as awkwardly.
You told me how old you were.
Exactly half my age.
Sent me a picture (not a nudie).
I told you exactly how old I am,
and that I am married.
And I said what’s someone like you
want with someone like me?
(I can write a story well enough
to see where someone else’s is going)
And you said that you could not find anyone your age
to love you.
They are all jerks, you said.
Can we just talk?
I have been through a lot in my life,
Please, you said.
In my mind, I think cynically that you are after
a rich old man. A sugar daddy.
Or, you’re looking for me to tell you some
private things about my life,
or ask you for sex,
or praise you with compliments
so you can say that I harassed you or stalked you.
But, it’s going on a week now,
and I don’t see you approaching paydirt any time soon.
And, I haven’t said this to you yet,
but any improprieties of mine are already known to my family.
Today, I wished you all the best, but made it clear
that I would never meet you or seek you out.
You said “don’t you want to talk to me any more?”
And I said “sure I will, I just thought you would not
talk to me any more, once you knew how things were”.
And you said “I look forward to talking. Will you
text me later, or whenever you get a chance?”
I say yes, because I get this feeling, Cathy,
that you just might be someone in desperation.
That you want to tell me things I don’t want to know.
And I think, in the words of a sad and desperate song,*
“You can use my skin. To bury secrets in.”
* “I know….by Fiona Apple