Romance novels

Always make it seem

So fucking easy.

Dear Jane,

Miss Austen,

Why did you set my standards

So high?

Why did you put into my naive thoughts,

The idea that men,

Men,

Could put aside their pride,

For me?

Dear Jane,

Miss Austen,

Why did you paint pictures

In my dreams

Of pink lace and cinched waists,

Soft hand touches and dancing,

The food of love?

Why did you let me imagine,

Let me dream,

That a man,

A man,

In an expensive poet shirt,

Would dance with me

Even if it was

His most hated task?

Dear Jane,

Miss Austen,

Why did you let me believe I was just like your heroine?

Obstinate, headstrong girl.

Why did you give me the inkling idea,

That men,

Men,

Would tell me that they love me,

Most ardently,

And against their better judgement,

While being saturated by rain?

Dear Jane,

Miss Austen,

How could you let me go on believing,

That if I were to walk to an empty field,

Drizzled with dew,

Before the dawn even broke,

I would find the man of my dreams?

How could you let me go on believing,

That a man,

A man,

Would tell me I have bewitched him,

Body and soul, and that he

Love,

Love,

Loves me, and

Never wishes to be parted from me from this day on?

Dear Jane,

Miss Austen,

You make romance,

True love,

Becoming completely,

Perfectly,

And incandescently happy,

Seem so fucking easy.

Dear Jane,

Miss Austen,

Why isn't it

So easy?