Animal Instinct

Every boy who has
kissed me first
has also left me.
And maybe that says something about
me,
how my mouth is bear trap,
whereas ankles are normally trapped
my lips work as snare,
confine others’ because
it’s the only way I know how to beg,
it’s the only way I can convey “stay”.

So,
I want but
never ask first.
One never does when the question leads
to abandonment;
why even bother the claws to break skin?

When you don’t have a chance of holding
what’s meant to leave you.
When mouths meeting are a different kind of speaking,
a “goodbye” tasted, instead of said.

“Magic”

that’s what she said we had.

Magic,

I’m chuckling to myself at the absurdity of the word.

The irony that while we were outside she told me that it was obvious,

to everyone but you,

that I had a crush.

She’s sitting across from me in the booth at Luca’s and gushing about

“magic”.

“You know those pictures of couples they have in frames already?”

She asks, eyes wide.

“Like in Housewares?”

I smirk.

“That’s you and him. You were always smiling like that at each other.”

(I’ll be honest here,

I feel foolish if that is how we looked at one another.)

 

I have let my mother down yet again.

I hope you know it pains me when I disappoint her.

She thinks I can’t let go,

as stated before,

because I am running my mouth about him

in order to not talk about you.

To not obsess over you,

like I have done for the past five months.

70 poems and such.

 

I told you before you were my crutch.

You told me before I think too much.

But…

 

Magic?
Really?

I’m observant enough to know

Your eyes never lit at the sight of me.

 

I am sitting in the middle of my living roomfloor,

Parade of Nations playing on TV,

and I am crying,

and apologizing,

and asking why you did what you did to me.

Why does it still matter to me?

Why does it hurt so much that you left me?

Why didn’t you ever come back and say anything?

And my mom,

just looks at me.

And I can tell I look a mess

because she smiles gently,

“You wanted him to be the one,”

Her eyes are sad as she tells me.

 

Oh, my love,

you certainly wrecked me.

You broke me.

Used me,

and ran from me.

(I thought you promised I couldn’t push,

chase,

or scare you away,

even if I tried.

You lied.

You lied.

You lied.

I’m sorry;

but I can’t run fast enough

to catch you.)

 

She’s looking at me across from the candy counter.

“You had something.”

“Something”,

Maybe.

But certainly not,

I choose to believe not

anything even close enough

to be considered:

magic.

Petrified

I’m scared a lot these days;

of more than I care to admit on here.

But specifically of getting my hopes up.

One person can make you happy,

but that doesn’t mean I should revolve my world around them.

I’d like to believe I’m not that girl anymore.

And I’d like to believe that these fears are reasonable.

That some may be good and are actually just

risks;

who knows if they are worth taking…

But through them, I have to try things out,

I have to face my fears and come to conclusions,

not live under any false illusions and

accept reality,

though not the pessimistic promise of its bleakness.

I’m choosing to believe you missed me.

Please don’t deny me that.

Intricacies: 1

Many people want you to fall in love

with the way they smile

or how their eyes crinkle in the corners

or the with the dimple in their left cheek.

But not me.

Ok, maybe me.

I am a bit of a hopeless romantic.

However,

I want you to fall in love with how I make my mashed potatoes

into a volcano, so that when I pour the gravy in,

it spills out like lava.

I want them to know how I take my coffee:

some kind of caramel concoction with two sugars

and whole milk.

And that I like the taste of it

when it turns cold.

I hope you know how I enjoy poetry,

but suck at writing it.

And I fangirl over poets

like Carly and Violet

and when they compliment my work, or

reply to comments,

I squeal like a girl and kick my feet up.

I hope you know I’d rather curl up with a book

than watch some type of sport with you,

though if you were to play it,

then I’d enjoy watching every second of it.

Watching the way your body twists and bends with effort.

And if you were willing to teach me,

the rules,

the fouls,

the strategy of the game

I’d be willing to learn.

And on those lines, I want to learn how to play Assassin’s Creed,

any of the four that are out presently,

I just don’t have the equipment.

These are just a list of a few of the stupid things,

that would make me fall in love with you.

This is just me touching base,

without even mentioning humor, because that deserves its own post.

Falling in love with you,

would not be a burden,

but rather a balloon.

And I will float away,

even if it means becoming caught among the branches.

If only to know that I caught a glimpse of what my world would be like,

with someone like you.