I don’t want to write about love.
I want to write about reality,
high school as a whole,
my experience with the world
but it keeps coming back to love.
I don’t want to write about you,
because in every poem with a “you”
an I love “you”
an I miss “you”
an I wish I could have woken up next to “you” one more time
an I wish I could have held “your” hand on that flight
an I was trying to decode “your” tone of voice when “you” said ‘I’ll see “you” in the morning’ but I fell asleep first
Everyone wants to know who “you” is
and i’m standing nervous in front of everyone
and I don’t want to accidentally make eye contact with you
and give it away.
I don’t want to write about love
because its gotten me into trouble enough
and everyone knows about love.
I sat down to write an honest love poem
and got swept up in metaphors
about boys that hurt and summers that burned my skin
and when I tried to write again
all I could get out of this heart
was a single sentence about a kiss on my right index finger.
I think it was my right,
but it ultimately doesn’t matter,
because I don’t want to write about love.
I don’t want to talk about feelings
because that can get complicated
with images of sinking ships and sunrises in central america,
fresh coffee or
a stain on a dress I never really cared for.
But here goes nothing:
You make me feel so full of shit:
So yesterday’s paper
So tomorrow’s sunrise
like I could never read love poetry again
because how could anyone have understood love before us
or whatever this is.
i’m a nervous wreck almost always
and stupidly confident the rest of the time,
and words are all i’ve got to keep me afloat
and here you are running away with them;
and I said I wasn’t going to talk about love.
I didn’t want to write about love,
And I didn’t want to write about you,
And I guess it’s not a coincidence that
I got a poem about the two.