the chats, the chats, the chats

This poem was born out of exhaustion — from swiping and small talk that led nowhere. I wrote it for anyone who's ever sent thoughtful openers, offered real energy, and still got ghosted. This is not a love story. It’s a boundary. If you're going to show up, show up fully — or don’t show up at all.

(not a love story)

the chats, the chats, the chats
(not a love story)

i don’t want a situationship.
not a maybe.
not a “let’s see.”
not a ghost in blue bubbles
or a body that forgets to ask my name.

i open the app,
say something warm,
thoughtful,
specific—
and get “lol” in return.

they post thirst traps,
but can’t hold a conversation.
they match,
but don’t message.
they reply,
but don’t ask.
just sitting there,
like they're waiting
for someone hotter
to log in.

i send opener after opener,
wittier than i need to be,
because hope has teeth
and i haven’t learned how to stop trying.

i ask how their day’s been,
they say “fine.”
i say they look good in that shirt,
they say “thanks.”
i share a bit of myself,
they disappear.

it’s a ghost town out here.
my inbox is full of
dead ends,
one-word replies,
half-hearted attempts
to fill the silence i didn’t create.

and i get it—
we’re all tired.
but i’m not here to perform.
not here to be entertainment
while they wait for something better.

i’m here
to be known.
to be asked.
to be held in curiosity,
not convenience.

i don’t flirt for fun.
i flirt with fire.
i show up real,
ready.

so if you're not here to try,
to care,
to make plans,
then don’t match.
don’t open.
don’t waste my time
with dry replies
and wet dreams.

because i’ve had enough
of the chats,
the chats,
the chats
that go nowhere.

Backstory

This poem was born out of exhaustion. After a year of swiping and showing up — with honesty, playfulness, real interest — I was met with “lol,” “haha,” and then silence.

I wasn’t looking for a situationship or a dopamine drip. I wasn’t asking for forever. I was asking for effort. For curiosity. For someone who could send more than dry replies and wet dreams.

The apps started to feel like a ghost town full of people half-scrolling through half-conversations. I was giving real energy. Real spark. And what I got in return was... not that.

This poem is a boundary. A flare in the dark. A moment of saying: I know what I want. I know what I bring. If you can’t match that — don’t match me at all.

It’s not a love story.
It’s a line in the sand.
And a reminder: I flirt with fire — not boredom.