I'm never the first one to say 'I love you,'
but at least you're the last thing I think about
before I fall asleep.

My first poetry slam left me feeling empty.
Burdened.
As if I were holding everyone’s feelings in the palms of my hands.

My teacher read with a straight face,
her voice as dry as sand.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The poems were anonymous but some of them
I was sure would earn a kid or two a call home,
sounding like a cry for help or suicide threat.

And even though we were just a high school class
some kids wrote with a brushstroke of color,
sure to one day be an aspiring author.

But me, my writing was beige
quick and to the point without much room for one to ponder
a poem or two about unrequited love that the kids called
"Cute”.

But that day as I walked out
I didn’t feel cute or cool or even creative.
I felt a weight on my shoulders,
heavier than even the textbooks in my backpack
I felt burdened

A ngelic hair forms a halo on her head
S apphire eyes reading my soul
T insel wings strapped to her back
O nly the two of us in this heaven
N othing but the cotton candy clouds
I mpressionist's world
S oothing sound as she sings
H ow in the hell did I get here?

I was standing under the lights
my palms laced with sweat
wanting to run and take flight
back to stage left.

but through the sea of faces
our eyes so happen to meet,
and in at that moment, of all places,
I’m a ball of burning heat.

Old memories blur my vision
of us playing tag at recess
of sitting in front of the television
of the love I never confessed.

I begin to tap my feet
and like always I dance the tune
my heart a rhythmic beat
for no one else but you