Like most males, any romantic intentions I have are inevitably followed by a path of destruction with no prejudices.

Introspectively, I know what’s wrong with me. I’m in love with the idea of love so much that I force myself to think I’ve fallen into it, only to remain firmly planted on the ground. I keep people close out of fear of losing anyone, no matter how magnificent or infinitesimal their impact. The conversations I hold are ones I play out in novels and films in my head, drama-filled and overflowing with uncertainty. From that stems the carnal love of the chase, but also the mundane of the catch.

Loving me is easy. I say all the right things, do just enough of them to keep someone around, and always make promises I can’t keep. This can only lead to agonizing pain and hurt for any woman foolish enough to admire me, and I recognize that, but I don’t stop.

I long for love so much that I’m willing to fake it until it becomes real. Then when reality sets in that it won’t, I’m in too deep to salvage any feelings or prevent the emotions of those women affected from destroying them from the inside out. There is genuine remorse, but it doesn’t ease the pain, either.

I am not a toxic human being, nor am I a bad human being, but I am a flawed human being with good, but selfish, intentions. My life is an odyssey in search of the most elusive treasure in life. I’ve always believed that the more I seek love the less likely I would be to find it, but part of me wants to contradict that notion. Maybe I could be Odysseus and finally, through sirens, temptresses, and turmoil, make my way home. The problem with trying to contradict what I seem to know to be true leaves slain monsters along with people I care about littered throughout my path.

I’ve never met a woman that I did not fall in love with. Women are beautiful in their mystery and graceful in their confidence. Whether for five minutes or five years, I’ve fallen in love with nearly every woman I have held a conversation with or admired from afar. Moving on is something I don’t do well, regardless of the significance of someone’s presence in my life.

We are supposed to learn from our mistakes so we can grow as people and not hurt each other. I don’t mean to hurt so many people, but it seems like that is one of my most prevalent flaws.

To the women I’ve hurt: I’m sorry. You gave me the treasure of love and I returned my own in the form of fool’s gold. I had every intention of returning that love you gave to me in the same fashion. My love was a Christmas gift on layaway I was never able to afford. I wrote a check that my heart couldn’t cash and you were left bankrupted.

I still reflect on all of you, using the shame I feel and imagining the pain I caused in an attempt to prevent myself from continuing on this path of destruction.

I’m sorry.