my friend told me recently
that he was sorry
that he didn’t always respond
when i said i loved him.
he said that the words
carry a lot of weight for him.
that he doesn’t like to use them casually.
and that’s okay by me.
but when did we decide
that these words had such power?
when did it become customary
to call your friends and ask
if it is too soon to tell your boyfriend
those three words?
we don’t have the time
to love people and not tell them.
i have decided to say what i mean
when i mean it
and i’ll tell my friends i love them daily
because it’s true.
i can feel the universe pressing on my shoulders
trying to bring me to my knees and i-
to be honest i
am ready to beg for mercy
but worse than the indifference of the world
is lacking a place to address it.
the universe can’t possibly hear me
from my bedroom floor
but where am i to go
and ask the nothingness for answers?
and who am i? to go and ask
the nothingness for answers?
describe yourself with things no one knows about you.
tell me your secrets, your inconsequential quirks
and let’s be just a little emotionally intimate
without ever knowing each others’ names.
this is me:
i love remembering
the diacritics on borrowed french words
i will always write:
résumé, papier-mâché, naïveté
mostly just for fun.
i rarely boil water to make tea
because i’m too impatient
to wait for it to cool down.
my brain desperately wants to love
but is too afraid to.
i fall for people slowly, so slowly
but don’t let myself catch feelings for friends
you can imagine how that works out.
i would love to take a break from school
to work at a bread bakery.
i think i would really like that job.
but i think being covered in flour
is more romantic in my head than it is in real life.
i feel like such a hodgepodge of a human.
a weird collection of niche interests
and insecurities that probably aren’t as unique as i think.
but now, i want to hear about you.
i don’t write,
any idiot can see my archives
and see how long it’s been.
and maybe you think
i write elsewhere
i wish i did.
i wish i still wrote poems
in the back of my planner
on the corners of napkins
in my thoughts.
but it’s not that simple anymore.
you know that too.
maybe for you it’s not writing.
but there’s always that.
you used to do.
see, every time we find
a new piece of ourselves-
we have more to hold
i think some pieces are slipping through my fingers.
i carry different things now,
than when i started writing.
when i present myself to the world
i have different parts of me to show.
but all those pieces i’ve lost along the way
are still me.
and as i look back at the trail i have left behind
i wonder if some pieces aren’t worth finding again.
i am searching for Adventure.
they told me i would find her here,
somewhere, in the midst of
new friends, experiences, everything.
but i am here now,
and i haven’t seen a thing.
i have a new friend,
have had some new experiences,
but nothing is as exciting—
as the Adventure i sought.
is she out there?
or is it all a lie,
am i chasing something
that only exists in the movies?
would Adventure even make me happy?
it takes years
to find out who you are
to find out you were wrong.
but here are the basics.
here’s what i know,
or maybe don’t.
here is who i am.
i am a heartbreak-sufferer,
i write poetry more emo than my personality
and hope my best friend has forgotten this url.
i thought i knew who i was.
i think they were just labels
that i liked to hide behind.
i used to have crushes,
but haven’t in a while.
fuck you, c.
i miss you anyway.
i was ready for a clean slate,
but it wasn’t clean enough
to start drawing with a new color.
i am still in the same boxes.
i want to tell the world who i am,
but i need to figure it out for myself first.
i want to exhale,
but i know my breath
will fog up the glass
and hide you from me.
i want to inhale,
but i know the sound
will fill my ears
and block out your voice.
i want to breathe,
but i know if i faint
i’ll see you in my eyelids-
so oxygen doesn’t matter.