“Forever is an incorrect concept” feels like someone replaced my stomach with a black hole and gave me a lobotomy.
My tears are mine.
You can’t take them from me
like you can’t close a dam once it’s broken
because I am too strong
I may shut myself up
because you’ll drown in me
but if you try to quell me
one more time
I’m going to show you
that I am beautiful
but I do not trickle or hum or flow.
I crash and roar
and obliterate concrete like limestone.
I am a child
of the ocean.
I am no child of yours.
There’s a well inside me
that plunges to the center of the Earth.
I am the axis
with a universe churning in me.
The water spills from my throat
and thunders on your roof.
I long to make your body 90% water
so your cells rupture
because you’re hypotonic
In these next few months, the person I love most in the world will go to college, I will travel to Europe and get a job and an internship and write and write and write. There is a sweet sickness that comes with the rapidly approaching liberty, like poison gas coming at me like a bullet train. And it’s sick of me, as well, but the deliciousness of it all consumes me more than the nausea. The idea of the hunger and spilling hot pain excites me as much as any hallucination of Yale or womanhood. We look at our lives from third person and are able to project the arc of our stories ahead of us. The narcissism of ourselves as the protagonists allows us to anticipate the urgency of our lives while remaining detached from them. That we are being watched by another—some grand observer in the sky—and the experiences that will really only intimately known by each of us become vital to this cosmic web with ourselves at the center. Experiences like this make me think about God. And that one thing Neil Gaiman said about authors being different people all trying to be the same person.
I met you at the library
To read in the same room
But all I could do was look up at you
And your architecture magazines
And pretend that “The Humanist” was more interesting
Than watching you try to make out
The difference between
Geometry and art.
I let us make out behind the bookshelf
Even though I thought PDA was rude
And made me remember
The boy in my seventh grade English class
Who didn’t care to ask whether or not
I wanted his tongue stuck down my throat.
The first time you stuck your tongue down my throat
Was on Valentine’s Day
And we watched the sunset on the beach.
The cliché tasted bitter in my mouth
But yours was sweet and exotic
That’s the thing about “I love you’s”
-everyone thinks they’re promises.
Pretty without trying too hard
Together for at least six months
Waits two days to call back
Waited at least three dates to have sex
Definitely not the one who cares more
I told you that I loved you
On the balcony of the Carlsbad Forum.
I was wearing way too much makeup
And you kissed me in public again
And everyone below us demanded that we get a room.
We had been together for a month and a half
I was fifteen years old
And I had lied to my parents about where we were that day.
But there is something magnetic
About kissing in public
And sneaking over to my house for no reason
And admitting that I’m not sure if I fit into your world
And steaming up your car anyway.
There are no ploys.
No tactics to make sure you’re “that into me,”
That I won’t prove myself to be
A sappy, overeager, stereotype hussy
Whose boyfriend treats the cherry he popped
Like it’s cough syrup
The morning after.
I told you I loved you when I didn’t.
You wrote me a letter.
I read it,
And my classmates told me that I looked like
Someone had died.
I told you I loved you when I didn’t.
But when we both made each other mix(ed) CDs
On our second date
I knew I would.
And I would rather give my red, ugly, fleshy love
To someone that kissed me again
After I talked during our first one
Than wait until I read so many Cosmo advice columns
That it couldn’t look pretty without trying too hard.